THE  PEOPLE 

AGAINST 

NANCY  PRESTON 


JOHN  A. 
MOROSO 


THE  PEOPLE 
AGAINST  NANCY  PRESTON 


THE    PEOPLE 

AGAINST 

NANCY    PRESTON 

BY 

JOHN  A.  MOROSO 


AUTHOR  OF 

'TH*  CITY  or  SILENT  MEN" 


NEW   YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1021 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


PRINTED    IN    TK.B    U.  B.  />. 


CHAPTER  I 

"T  71  THEN  does  this  here  Mike  Horgan  get  out, 

VV    Agnes?" 

James  Tierney,  Incorporated,  formerly  known  in 
his  old  police  headquarter  days  as  Bonehead  Tierney 
or  Solid  Ivory,  pawed  a  bristly  reddish-white  mus- 
tache as  he  sat  at  his  desk  in  his  suite  high  above 
downtown  New  York,  the  guardian  of  the  riches  of  as 
profitable  a  clientele  as  ever  a  private  detective  might 
desire.  Some  paunchiness  had  come  with  the  years  of 
fat  living  and  there  was  a  heave  and  roll  above  his 
collar  in  the  back  as  a  collop  sought  release  from  the 
conventions  of  dress ;  yet  his  blue  eyes  were  as  keen  as 
ever,  the  strength  of  his  jaw  showed  beneath  the 
plumpening  cheeks  and  his  interest  in  the  game  of 
man-hunting  was  never  so  great. 

Agnes  Doherty  placed  before  him  a  loose-leaf  book 
of  record.  He  turned  to  the  H's  and  read:  "  'Hor- 
gan, Michael,  Burglar.  Second  Term.'  I  was  sure 
his  time  was  about  up, ' '  he  said  as  he  made  a  memo, 
on  a  calendar  before  him. 

The  sunshine  of  an  early  spring  day  filled  the  south 
windows  of  his  private  office  on  the  twenty-third  floor 

3 


2137391 


4  NANCY  PRESTON 

of  the  Eagle  National  Bank  Building  in  Nassau  street. 
As  he  swung  about  in  his  chair  from  the  flat-top  desk 
he  gazed  reflectively  out  over  the  tip  of  Manhattan 
Island,  nosing  its  way  between  the  two  rivers  into 
the  sunlit  bay  like  a  great  horned  lizard. 

His  heavy  eyelids  dropped  and  from  one  of  the 
cortices  of  a  camera-like  brain  came  the  picture  of  a 
tall,  dark-complexioned  man  with  deep-set  gray  eyes, 
narrow  and  aristocratic  features  and  lips  hinting  a 
smile.  A  voice,  too,  came  up  to  him  from  the  well- 
ordered  depths  of  his  memory,  a  pleasing,  kindly  voice. 

"He  ought  never  to  be  let  out,  Agnes,"  he  said, 
turning  to  the  girl  who  was  busying  herself  with  her 
powder  rag.  "First  class  help  in  our  line  of  business 
is  hard  to  get  and  he's  clever.  He's  clever,  that  Hor- 
gan  fellow.  He's  educated,  too;  maybe  a  college  man 
with  a  kink  in  his  brain."  He  fumbled  with  heavy 
fingers  the  correspondence  before  him  and  a  smile 
came  to  his  red  countenance.  "It  wouldn't  be  sur- 
prising," he  added.  "They  tell  me  they  talk  free  love 
in  these  colleges  as  easy  as  they  talk  Latin  and  Yid- 
dish. But  I  ain't  sure  about  that  because  the  only 
college  I  went  to  was  in  old  Mulberry  street  when 
McCafferty  was  inspector  in  charge  of  the  bulls. 
However,  as  they  say  in  the  papers,  love  is  property 
just  the  same  as  bonds  and  jewelry  and  cash.  If  they 
learn  to  be  careless  with  taking  a  guy 's  wife  or  daugh- 
ter they'll  get  to  taking  other  things  and  it's  the  gen- 


NANCY  PRESTON  5 

tlemen  with  taking  habits  we're  hired  to  keep  track 
of.    Ain't  it  so,  Agnes?" 

"Sure."  She  folded  away  the  powder  rag  and  be- 
gan to  prepare  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

"Who  can  we  spare  to  send  up  to  Sing  Sing  and 
shadow  this  Mike  Horgan?"  he  asked. 

' '  Silk  Hat  Harry  Duveen  ? ' '  she  suggested. 

He  ridiculed  the  idea  with  a  roar  of  laughter,  star- 
ing at  her  like  a  surprised  walrus  with  bristles  and 
wet  blue  eyes. 

"Why,  Horgan  uncovered  Silk  Hat  six  or  seven 
years  ago,"  he  protested.  "Another  thing  about 
Harry  is  that  he  couldn't  travel  in  the  same  class 
with  this  feller.  Mike  Horgan  is  a  real  gentleman  and 
Harry  is  only  a  rhinestone.  What  we  gotta  do  is  to 
put  some  nice  honest  squarehead  close  to  him  to  keep 
him  company.  Horgan  will  go  straight  for  about 
three  months  and  then  he'll  weaken  on  the  honest 
toil.  We'll  be  there  when  he  does  and  shoot  him  back 
up  the  river.  Then  the  burglar  insurance  companies 
can  rest  easy  for  a  while.  Get  me?" 

"Sure."  Agnes'  carmined  lips  smiled  her  admira- 
tion for  "B.  H.,"  as  she  surreptitiously  but  affection- 
ately referred  to  him.  "There's  Gloomy,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

"Gloomy  is  the  boy,'*  he  agreed.  "They  don't 
make  'em  any  more  patient  and  pertinaish.  .  .  ."  He 
hesitated. 


6  NANCY  PRESTON 

"Pertinacious,"  she  assisted. 

"Pertinacious  than  Gloomy  Cole.  Get  out  the  pic- 
tures and  the  records,  stuff  him  up  with  them,  hand 
him  some  expense  kale,  about  two  hundred  smacks, 
and  see  that  he  gets  on  the  right  train  for  Sing  Sing. 
Tell  him  to  give  me  a  report  as  soon  as  Mr.  Mike  Hor- 
gan  hires  a  room  for  himself."  He  pulled  out  a  dia- 
mond studded  watch  and  studied  it  with  pride,  for  it 
was  a  token  of  appreciation  from  a  great  bonding 
company  for  having  run  down  a  bank  teller  who  had 
wearied  of  counting  other  people's  money  and  had 
tried  to  retire  with  a  dress-suit  case  full  of  treasury 
certificates. 

In  his  time  there  had  been  no  better  gum-shoe  artist 
at  police  headquarters,  despite  the  pet  names  given 
him.  Stolid  and  without  imagination,  he  dealt  liter- 
ally with  facts,  but  his  brain  was  a  sensitive  plate  and 
his  eye  the  lens  of  a  photographic  machine.  Of  the  fa- 
mous detective  heroes  of  fiction  he  knew  nothing,  for 
there  were  too  many  crooks  at  large  in  the  world  to 
bother  with  those  held  between  book  covers. 

"Well,  I  got  a  luncheon  of  the  Manufacturing 
Jewelers '  Association  at  twelve, ' '  he  grunted.  ' '  I  got 
t»  watch  those  old  boys  or  somebody '11  come  along 
and  take  their  watches  and  chains  from  'em.  They're 
certainly  careless.  They  let  in  their  help  without 
ever  thinking  they  might  be  hiring  first-class  dips  and 
then  yell  when  a  crate  of  phoney  lavallieres  goes 


NANCY  PRESTON  7 

astray.  I  got  to  get  'em.  to  try  and  do  better  than 
that  or  they  '11  have  to  hire  another  detective  service. ' ' 

Agnes  brushed  his  shoulders  with  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  as  he  buttoned  his  ready-made  coat  around  his 
balcony,  handed  him  his  hat  and  assured  him  that  she 
would  stuff  Gloomy  Cole  with  the  Horgan  dope. 

"He's  got  lots  of  time,"  he  informed  her,  "but  he 
can  be  hanging  around  Ossining  making  friends  and 
digesting  what  you  give  him.  I  don't  want  this 
Horgan  to  give  us  the  slip." 


CHAPTER  II 

FOR  a  burglar,  Michael  Horgan  had  a  singularly  at- 
tractive face,  long  and  narrow,  with  a  well- 
shaped  beak,  wide  mouth  and  gray  eyes  set  wrell  back 
under  a  good  forehead.  Time,  he  was  turning  thirty- 
five,  and  a  sense  of  fun  had  wrinkled  his  tan-colored 
skin  at  the  outer  corners  of  the  eyes  and  laughter  had 
seamed  his  thin  cheeks. 

The  "P.  K.,"  which  is  the  pet  name  for  the  prin- 
cipal keeper  in  Sing  Sing,  gave  him  a  library  job 
during  his  first  term,  a  matter  of  two  years,  and,  at 
his  own  request,  detailed  him  to  hospital  and  pharma- 
ceutical work  when  he  showed  up  the  second  time. 
His  prison  behavior  warranted  these  favors.  In  the 
gray-clad  army  of  malefactors  were  physicians,  law- 
yers, an  excellent  poet,  an  editor,  several  architects 
and  artists,  a  number  of  ministers  (in  for  bigamy) 
and  other  men  of  culture  besides  the  raft  of  the  un- 
lettered and  uninspired.  But  Horgan  seemed  to  lead 
the  best  of  them  in  enthusiastic  devotion  to  duty.  He 
wrote  a  great  deal  in  his  spare  moments  and  studied 
much.  When  his  first  bit  was  ended  he  hied  him 
forth  cheerfully  with  a  bundle  of  manuscript  under 
his  arm  only  to  return  in  a  little  more  than  twelve 

8 


NANCY  PRESTON  9 

months,  empty  handed  and  with  another  stretch  of 
three  years  in  "stir"  before  him. 

Father  Healey,  the  Catholic  chaplain,  who  had  taken 
many  a  condemned  man  through  the  little  green  door, 
far  downstairs,  and  had  helped  his  soul  to  its  flight 
"through  the  wires,"  declared  his  conviction  that 
Brother  Michaelis,  as  he  called  Horgan,  would  have 
made  a  great  saint  or  a  great  physician,  a  mender  of 
human  souls  and  bodies,  were  it  not  for  the  absurd 
theory  he  once  offered  that  burglars  might  have  been 
put  on  earth  to  help  equalize  the  distribution  of 
wealth,  just  as  bees  were  created  to  carry  pollen  from 
flower  to  flower.  Toward  the  end  of  his  second  term 
Brother  Michaelis  could  have  passed  his  examinations 
for  a  license  to  practise  medicine  in  almost  any  State 
or  country.  From  long  and  intelligent  service,  care- 
ful study  in  the  library  and  keen  observation  in  the 
operating  room,  he  could,  too,  have  acquitted  himself 
well  in  surgery. 

He  had  never  tried  to  escape.  In  fact  he  was  a 
disk  man,  wearing  a  little  white  circle  of  cloth  on  his 
arm  during  all  his  first  term  to  show  that  his  conduct 
wras  perfect  as  a  prisoner.  Second  term  men  wore  a 
blue  disk  until  they  violated  one  of  the  many  rules  and 
regulations,  when  it  was  pierced.  Horgan  still  had 
his  blue  disk  inviolate  as  his  second  term  drew  to  a 
close.  The  third  disk  would  be  red,  a  warning  to  his 
keepers  that  he  was  beyond  redemption  as  far  as  the 


10  NANCY  PRESTON 

outside  world  was  concerned,  an  habitual  criminal, 
confined  for  life. 

Brother  Michaelis  accepted  the  kindly  alias  given 
him  by  the  priest  and  went  him  one  better  by  calling 
the  walled  city  overlooking  the  Hudson  the  Monastery 
of  La  Trappe,  a  fitting  enough  name  as  many  of  the 
unwary  wicked  can  testify.  His  supposed  mania  did 
not  in  the  least  trouble  him  while  he  was  in  retreat 
from  the  world,  for  the  only  treasure  within  reach  of 
his  hand,  books,  were  his  for  the  asking.  Food,  shel- 
ter and  warmth  were  free.  There  was  no  landlord,  no 
dunning  butcher,  no  fellow  human  asking  a  heavy 
profit  on  the  baggy  clothes  that  covered  his  nakedness 
or  the  shoes  that  he  wore. 

"It  is  a  very  interesting  state  of  affairs,"  he  con- 
fided to  Father  Healey  as  the  time  drew  near  when  he 
would  be  free  again.  "It's  very  interesting  that  So- 
ciety has  to  turn  the  key  on  a  man  before  it  will  pro- 
vide him  with  the  simple  essentials  of  life  and  that  it 
will  let  him  starve  if  he 's  in  ill  luck  but  will  give  him 
a  free  grave  when  he  dies.  Georges  Clemenceau,  when 
he  was  a  young  man,  once  advocated  a  bill  providing 
for  free  bread  in  the  French  Republic  on  the  ground 
that  if  the  State  could  afford  to  give  a  grave  to  a  dead 
man,  utterly  useless,  it  might  afford  to  give  food  to  a 
live  one  from  whom  some  economic  gain  might  be  had. ' ' 

"Brother  Michaelis,"  laughed  the  padre,  "if  you'd 
start  by  saving  yourself  you  might  learn  a  thing  or 


NANCY  PRESTON  11 

two  about  saving  the  rest  of  humanity.  Tha  next 
time  you  come  here  it  will  be  for  life,  remember,  and 
you're  not  an  old  man.  Watch  your  step,  brother. 
Watch  your  step." 

The  convict's  eyes  clouded  for  a  moment. 

''Remember,  with  burglars  it's  a  case  of  three 
strikes  and  out,"  Father  Healey  called  back  over  his 
shoulder.  "There  must  be  somebody  in  the  big  out- 
side sunny  world  that  could  be  made  happier  for  your 
presence  and  help.  Think  it  over!" 

He  thought  it  over  as  he  moved  about  between  the 
cots  in  the  hospital,  getting  things  in  ship-shape  for 
the  night,  as  the  barred  patches  of  light  crept  from  the 
floor  to  the  wall  and  the  sun  sought  its  bed  under  the 
hills  across  the  river. 

Bill,  an  old  pal  of  the  jimmy  and  drill,  would  be 
glad  to  see  him,  he  thought,  and  so  would  Nancy,  his 
wife,  and  their  kid,  Bubs.  But  Bill  had  reformed 
and  was  going  straight,  at  least  he  was  in  the  narrow 
path  when  he  last  heard  from  him  on  account  of  the 
boy.  Bill  had  written. 

"Watcha  lookin'  so  damned  sad  about,  Mike?" 
came  a  weak  voice  from  the  cot  nearest  him.  "Ain't 
your  time  most  up?  Take  a  slant  at  me.  I  got  fif- 
teen years  yet  and  the  pneumonia." 

Brother  Michaelis  forced  a  smile  as  his  relief  came 
into  the  room  and  hurried  out  to  report  for  supper1 
call  and  his  cell. 


CHAPTER  HI 

ABOVE  the  Hudson,  the  Monastery  of  La  Trappe, 
its  walls,  wide  and  high,  illumined  by  huge  arc 
lights,  sat  like  a  great  scarab  framed  in  diamonds. 
The  narrow  windows  were  dark  and  the  shadowy  vil- 
lage, straggling  downhill,  northward  to  the  river, 
slept  peacefully. 

Brother  Michaelis,  stretched  out  on  the  cot  in  his 
cell,  still  "thought  it  over."  It  was  the  way  that 
Father  Healey  had  put  it  that  kept  him  awake.  Some 
one  might  be  happier  for  his  presence  in  the  great 
outside  world.  If  there  wasn't  some  one  now,  say 
if  he  found  that  Bill  and  Nancy  and  Bubs  had  forgot- 
ten him,  he  might  come  upon  such  a  person  in  time, 
even  a  woman  with  love  in  her  eyes,  just  as  Bill  had 
come  upon  his  woman. 

Then,  too,  the  next  trip  would  be  the  last  time  in, 
until  a  brown-painted  box  was  provided  him  instead 
of  clothes  and  a  hat.  "I  got  fifteen  years  yet  and 
the  pneumonia."  The  words  of  the  ill  convict  stuck 
in  his  mind.  Poor  Jim  would  never  get  out  alive  and 
he  wasn't  a  bad  sort  at  that.  He'd  only  killed  an 
enemy  of  his.  From  time  to  time  Christian  nations 
did  that  on  a  wholesale  scale. 

12 


NANCY  PRESTON  13 

The  men  in  the  cells  in  his  section  slept  with  sin- 
gular peacefulness.  Their  breathing  was  soft  and 
regular,  like  that  of  healthy  children.  A  regular 
tapping  on  the  steam  pipes  in  the  corridor  took  his 
mind  abruptly  from  his  cogitations.  Some  other  con- 
vict was  awake  and  was  sending  out  underground  in- 
formation in  the  Morse  code.  Michaelis  spelled  out 
the  prison  gossip  slowly.  "Bill  Preston  killed  on  a 
job,"  was  the  news.  It  brought  him  to  a  sitting  po- 
sition with  a  gasp  of  surprise  and  horror,  for  Preston 
was  his  long-tried  Bill,  Nancy's  husband,  and  the  fa- 
ther of  Bubs.  He  twisted  his  lean  fingers  together  as 
he  spelled  out  the  words  that  followed.  "The  bulls 
got  him.  Died  in  Fordham  hospital.  Said  to  tell  M. 
to  help  Annie  and  the  kid." 

A  groan  escaped  his  lips  and  the  guard  in  the  cor- 
ridor flashed  his  light  in  the  cell. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  fellow?     Sick?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Michaelis. 

"Want  the  doctor?" 

"No."  Horgan  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  and 
pulled  up  his  blanket.  One  of  the  three  people  who 
cared  or  might  care  about  him  was  gone.  He  had  seen 
Bill  touched  and  ennobled  by  the  fire  of  pure  love. 
He  had  seen  Nancy  fan  that  flame  with  a  devotion  that 
brought  its  great  reward  when  they  married  and  her 
man  took  the  narrow  way.  He  had  lived  with  them 
during  the  first  year  of  their  marriage.  He  had  seen 


14  NANCY  PRESTON 

the  first  sweet  radiance  of  motherhood  on  Nancy's 
face  and  had  watched  the  little  fists  of  the  baby  pound- 
ing at  her  breasts,  making  her  blue  eyes  shine  like 
amethysts.  Nothing  but  terrible  want  could  have 
made  Bill  go  back  to  the  old  game. 

The  morning  came  without  Brother  Michaelis  having 
had  a  moment's  rest.  He  soused  his  head  in  cold 
water  and  reported  to  the  hospital  for  duty. 

"Jim's  been  asking  for  you,"  he  was  informed  by 
the  night  orderly.  "Him  over  there."  He  pointed 
to  the  convict  who  had  "fifteen  years  to  go  and  the 
pneumonia. "  ' '  There  ain  't  anything  can  be  done  for 
him  except  by  the  carpenter, ' '  the  other  added.  ' '  Bet- 
ter find  out  what  he  wants.  He  knows  you're  going 
out  in  a  few  days  and  maybe  he  wants  to  send  a  mes- 
sage to  some  of  his  people." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  man  who  had  slain  his  enemy  motioned  to 
Michaelis  to  lean  close  to  him. 

"I  got  a  present  for  you,  Mike,"  he  whispered. 
"You  been  in  twice  and  the  next  time  .  .  .  you  know. 
Well,  they'll  get  you  back  in  again,  Mike,  never  mind 
how  straight  you  go.  When  I  was  taken  sick  I'd  just 
finished  a  nice  little  job  down  back  of  the  kitchen. 
Look  in  the  wall  of  the  last  potato  bin.  There's  a 
brick  loose,  held  in  place  with  chewing  gum.  Take  it 
out  and  the  others  will  come  out.  You'll  find  a  little 
passage-way  to  the  sewer  that  empties  in  the  river. 
It 's  an  old  brick  sewer  and  I  made  a  hole  in  the  top. ' ' 

"I'm  not  coming  back,  Jim,"  Horgan  assured  him. 
"I'm  going  to  go  straight.  You  lie  still  like  a  good 
fellow." 

"We  all  say  that,"  Jim  whispered,  his  face  drawn 
with  pain.  "You  might  go  as  straight  as  Father 
Healey  himself,  but  you've  been  in  twice  and  down 
at  headquarters  they've  got  your  old  mug  and  your 
measurements  and  your  finger  prints  and  when  they 
want  some  one  to  put  over  a  conviction  on,  you'll 
have  a  lovely  time  staying  outside.  Mike  .  .  .  Mike!" 

15 


16  NANCY  PRESTON 

Each  word  was  taking  a  moment  from  the  little  life 
left  him. 

"Yes,  Jim." 

"I'm  telling  you  not  to  forget  that  potato  bin,"  Jim 
continued.  "It  might  take  'em  a  long  time  before 
they  close  in  on  you  and  you  might  be  doing  fine  with 
a  wife  and  children  and  going  to  church  regular. 
Then  you'll  need  that  hole  in  the  wall.  .  .  .  Say, 
Mike." 

"Yes,  Jim." 

"You  ever  know  of  a  woman  that  went  crooked 
once  and  got  any  help  when  she  started  straight 
again?" 

Brother  Michaelis  drew  back  from  the  cot,  surprise 
at  the  question  showing  in  his  gray  eyes.  "I  only 
knew  one,"  he  replied. 

"Was  it  her  mother  helped  her?" 

"No." 

"Her  father?" 

"No." 

"Who  was  it,  Mike,  helped  her?    Her  husband?" 

"No." 

"Who,  then?" 

"A  man  who  loved  her  and  was  her  friend." 

"He  didn't  get  what  he  wanted,  eh?"  A  little 
flash  of  fire  came  to  the  dull  eyes  of  the  dying  man. 
"I  get  it,"  he  added.  "I  was  one  of  them  and  so  I 
killed  the  guy." 


NANCY  PRESTON  17 

"That's  rough  stuff,  Jim,  and  you're  a  pretty  sick 
man,"  remonstrated  Michaelis. 

''You're  educated,  Mike,  and  I  ain't.  Excuse  me. 
What  I  was  thinking  about  was  that  if  the  world 
damns  a  woman  for  one  mistake  there  ain't  any  man 
can  expect  any  better,  especially  from  his  own  kind. 
It's  a  matter  of  what's  wrongest.  With  a  woman  it's 
a  man.  With  a  man  it 's  money  or  power.  The  more 
money  and  power  the  rich  get  the  more  laws  they 
make  to  protect  them  from  the  poor  and  them  that 
want  to  take  some  of  it,  one  way  or  another,  from 
them.  Once  you're  caught  trying  to  help  yourself 
to  what  others  got  away  with  you're  tabbed  for  life. 
Remember  that  potato  bin,  Mike." 

"You'd  better  keep  quiet,  now,"  urged  Michaelis. 
Some  of  the  gray  of  a  bed  of  ashes  on  a  cold  hearth 
came  to  the  face  of  Jim.  He  clamped  his  jaws  to- 
gether and  with  tightly  closed  eyes  tried  to  fight  the 
death  agony  as  the  final  hardening  of  his  lungs,  which 
would  leave  them  like  lumps  of  red  granite,  set  in. 
Horgan  held  him  to  the  cot  during  the  last  spasm  and 
then  sent  a  trusty  to  the  carpenter  shop. 


CHAPTER  y 

PROPERLY  stuffed  with  "the  dope"  on  Mike 
Horgan,  Gloomy  Cole  joined  him  on  the  road 
which  twists  and  dips  from  the  Monastery  of  La 
Trappe  to  the  railroad  station  in  the  village.  His 
guise  was  that  of  a  laborer;  his  powerful  shoulders 
and  back  muscles  were  packed  in  a  jacket  which  was 
far  too  small  for  him;  a  blue  and  white  bandana 
served  for  baggage,  holding  two  pork  chop  sand- 
wiches, a  small  tin  cup,  a  package  of  tobacco  and  two 
pairs  of  socks.  His  pseudonym  of  Gloomy  fitted  his 
face,  broad,  colorless,  sad,  clean-shaven.  There 
seemed  too  much  of  it  as  it  spread  out  below  a  little 
derby  hat  and  there  didn't  appear  to  be  room  enough 
above  the  eyebrows  to  hold  more  than  enough  brains 
to  keep  his  brogans  lifting  over  the  road.  But  in  the 
lapel  of  his  straining  jacket  he  wore  an  I.  W.  W. 
button,  token  of  his  membership  in  the  organization 
nearest  to  sheer  Anarchistic  tenets. 

In  the  process  of  stuffing  Gloomy,  Agnes  Doherty 
had  described  Horgan  as  a  gentleman  who  was  crazy 
in  the  head,  a  nut,  but  one  which  required  a  capable 
squirrel  to  handle  when  he  got  in  action.  ' '  The  boss 
thinks  he  studied  too  hard  or  maybe  his  mother  was 

18 


NANCY  PRESTON  19 

a  victim  of  kleptomania  about  the  time  he  was  born," 
Agnes  had  confided  to  the  faceful  Cole.  "But  as 
long  as  they  don't  keep  him  in  a  greenhouse,  where 
all  bugs  should  be,  we  gotta  tail  him  because  we're 
in  the  business  of  protecting  people  whose  brains  ain't 
twisted.  His  name  ain't  any  more  Horgan  than 
mine  is.  Look  at  that  long,  horse  face  of  his.  It 
don't  fit  any  Irish  name.  The  boss  says  if  he  ain't 
from  some  old  American  family  of  English  descent 
he'll  eat  his  old  hard  hat." 

Gloomy  jogged  along  the  road  in  the  smile  of  a 
fine  May  morning.  Across  the  river  the  gently  rising 
land  was  touched  with  the  pale  halo  of  new  life,  the 
young  grass  and  the  little  leaves.  Above,  a  satiny 
blue  sky  dotted  with  cotton  balls.  In  every  bush  and 
nearby  tree,  even  in  the  eaves  of  the  tumble-down 
shacks  lining  the  road,  the  birds  sang  in  the  full  elo* 
quence  of  love  at  the  year's  youth.  Thrush,  robin, 
chat,  sparrow,  chickadee,  bluebird  and  goldfinch  made 
a  blithe  chorus  of  welcome  for  Michaelis  as  his  long 
strides  brought  him  beside  the  man  with  the  wide 
face. 

"It's  a  fine  morning!"  he  said  cheerily  as  he  fell 
in  step  with  Cole. 

"For  some  people,"  agreed  the  gloomy  one. 

"For  everybody,  I'd  say."  The  conversation  was 
on. 

"Damn  if  I'd  say  so,"  protested   Cole  bitterly. 


20  NANCY  PRESTON 

"There  ain't  jobs  enough  to  go  around.  Last  winter 
was  hellish.  Nothing  to  eat  but  the  mission  hand- 
outs, stale  bread  and  weak  coffee.  And  cops  and 
bulls  always  a-plenty  to  make  you  move  on  the  minute 
you  thought  you  had  a  place  for  a  flop." 

"What's  your  job?"  asked  Horgan, 

"Stationary  engineer.  It's  a  joke.  The  engines 
are  stationary  but  the  engineers  ain't.  Soon  as  you 
get  comfortable  on  a  job  the  building  is  finished  and 
you  got  to  dig  out  for  another.  And  you  never  get 
paid  right.  The  contractor  gets  all  the  money.  Then 
the  speculators  get  busy  and  make  a  lot  of  crooked 
profits,  buying  and  selling  the  property.  Everybody 
gets  a  large  slice  but  the  men  who  build  the  place.  It 
ought  to  be  the  other  way  around." 

' '  Socialist  ? ' '  asked  Michaelis. 

"Not  me."     Gloomy  spat  angrily. 

"Union  man?" 

"Not  me.  I'm  against  all  of  them.  I  hate  the 
whole  bunch.  What  we  need  is  to  simplify  matters 
by  (giving  ownership  to  the  people  who  create  the 
products  of  industry,  complete  ownership.  Then 
there  wouldn't  be  any  capitalist  class.  There 'd  only 
be  one  class,  the  workers." 

They  made  the  last  turn  of  the  road  and  descended 
the  steep  street  running  through  Ossining  to  the  rail- 
road station. 


NANCY  PRESTON  21 

"Which  way,  Bo?"  asked  Gloomy. 

1  'To  New  York." 

"Me,  too." 

Each  bought  a  ticket,  the  detective  more  than 
pleased  with  his  progress.  If  the  released  burglar 
really  was  a  radical  they  would  be  friends  before  they 
reached  Grand  Central  station,  for  he  knew  how  to 
talk  the  language  of  the  malcontents  of  the  world. 
He  was,  in  fact,  one  of  them  at  heart. 

"What's  your  business?"  he  asked  Horgan,  when 
they  were  comfortably  in  the  smoker. 

"A  student." 

"A  student?     Of  what?" 

"Of  anything  and  everything,  people  and  other 
animals,  governments,  arts  and  sciences." 

"Huh." 

"But  mostly  of  people  as  I  meet  them.  Of  recent 
years,  however,  I  have  gotten  around  but  little  and 
my  attention  was  confined  entirely  to  those  in  my 
own  class." 

"Laborers  like  me?"  asked  Gloomy. 

"In  a  way,  perhaps,  like  you.  They  hated  every- 
body but  themselves." 

"Radicals." 

"Very  much,  so,  advocates  of  direct  action,  jungle 
people." 

' '  Is  that  so  ? "    Gloomy  Cole  had  a  queer  little  feel- 


22  NANCY  PRESTON 

ing  that  this  soft  voiced  man  was  stringing  him. 
Plainly  he  meant  to  class  him  with  convicts.  Was  it 
possible  that  Horgan  suspected  him? 

"But  can  you  get  a  living  out  of  being  a  student?" 
he  hazarded. 

"After  you've  learned  enough.  Now,  what  I've 
been  doing  is  this :  taking  a  post-graduate  course  in  a 
religious  order,  where  I  could  study  all  I  pleased  and 
be  fed  and  sheltered.  Now  that  I  have  finished  my 
preparation  for  life  outside  I  am  going  to  offer  myself 
as  the  subject  for  a  tremendous  experiment." 

"I'll  tell  the  cock-eyed  world  that  Agnes  is  right 
when  she  says  this  guy's  a  nut,"  Gloomy  thought. 
Then  aloud:  "What's  the  experiment,  boss?" 

"I'm  going  to  pay  back  to  society  what  I  owe  it  and 
see  whether  it  will  give  a  chap  a  fair  start  after  his 
debts  are  cleaned  up." 

"I  don't  get  you.    What'd  you  do  to  society?" 

"I  was  a  thief." 

"Huh."  Tierney's  man  did  not  like  this  honest 
statement.  A  lie  would  have  been  more  to  his  taste, 
for  he  himself  was  lying.  A  little  tightening  about 
his  heart  suggested  shame  and  some  color  crept  to  his 
broad  face.  "But  you're  going  straight  now?"  he 
asked  softly. 

"Yes."  Horgan  offered  his  shadow  a  cigarette. 
"You'll  find  that  one  the  best  you  ever  smoked." 

"Turkish,  eh?"  asked  Cole,  inhaling  deeply. 


NANCY  PRESTON  23 

"A  special  brand  I  make  for  myself." 

"It's  certainly  a  swell  pill." 

They  smoked  in  silence  until  Horgan  hooked  an 
elbow  on  the  sill  of  the  window  and  apparently  pre- 
pared to  take  a  nap.  Gloomy  studied  his  man  with 
eyes  that  seemed  to  get  heavier  with  each  glance. 
The  car  was  overheated.  The  steady  click  of  the 
wheels  under  him  added  to  his  drowsiness.  He  fought 
to  keep  awake  but  at  last  surrendered,  threw  back 
his  head  and,  with  his  Adam's  apple  jerking  up  and 
down,  began  to  breathe  heavily  in  deep  slumber. 

Brother  Michaelis  stirred,  glanced  at  the  laborer  be- 
side him  with  a  smile,  stepped  lightly  over  him  and, 
as  the  train  slowed  up  at  the  Tremont  station,  dropped 
off  and  walked  away  from  the  tracks  in  the  direction 
of  Fordham.  He  had  doped  the  cigarette  in  the 
prison  pharmacy  for  just  such  an  emergency  if  it 
should  arise. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JUST  across  the  Harlem  river  from  Fordham  the 
Prestons  lived  in  a  tiny  Bronx  flat.  Michael 
felt  sure  that  had  Nancy  moved,  following  the  death 
of  her  husband,  she  would  have  sent  word  to  him. 
He  struck  out  to  the  west.  On  his  way  he  would  stop 
by  Fordham  Hospital  and  ask  information  as  to  the 
tragedy. 

His  thoughts  were  sad,  and  yet  not  altogether  so, 
as  he  made  his  way  westward  through  the  wide  pleas- 
ant streets,  past  pretty  gore-strip  parks  where  many 
children  played  in  the  sunlight  like  butterflies;  by 
stretches  of  undeveloped  land  where  dandelions 
sparked  and  past  occasional  old  farm  houses  that  had 
escaped  the  scythe  of  the  tenement  builders. 

Nancy  was  a  brave  woman ;  she  had  ever  been  that, 
and,  to  his  eyes,  was  beautiful  as  she  was  brave. 
When  she  and  the  man  who  was  to  be  her  husband 
first  met,  her  fine  mass  of  hair  was  dyed  the  color  of 
straw,  her  laughter  a  bit  hard  and  her  slang  ready 
but  when  they  had  come  through  clean,  one  to  the 
other,  the  love  between  them  had  saved  them  both. 
As  poor  Jim,  dying  in  the  agony  of  pneumonia,  had 
said,  it  was  a  matter  only  of  which  was  wrongest, 

24 


NANCY  PRESTON  25 

with  a  woman  it  was  a  man  and  with  a  man  money. 
He  had  stood  strongly  championing  Nancy  the  night 
before  they  decided  to  get  the  license  and  plunge  into 
the  cold  and  unfathomed  depths  of  respectability. 
She  had  not  followed  woman 's  most  ancient  profession 
steadily  for  a  living,  but  only  when  all  legitimate 
means  of  getting  her  rent  and  food  had  failed.  On 
the  other  hand,  Bill  Preston  was  a  igrade  or  two  lower, 
for  it  was  not  altogether  through  necessity  that  he 
violated  the  laws.  He  wanted  easy  money. 

The  stately  buildings  of  New  York  University  came 
in  view.  He  turned  north  from  Burnside  avenue  on 
Aqueduct  avenue  toward  the  hospital.  Trees  and 
green  lawns,  ovals  for  the  sports  of  young  men,  snug 
houses  for  the  shelter  of  their  teachers  in  the  arts 
and  sciences,  noble  buildings  turreting  above  the  land- 
scape, wherein  was  the  peaceful  quiet  of  people  with 
thoughtful  minds,  held  him  entranced.  From  Uni- 
versity Heights  he  could  see  to  the  south  the  city  lying 
in  a  silver  veil,  long  and  narrow,  a  peninsula  of  roofs 
from  which  pointed  an  occasional  steeple  mindful  of 
a  world  after  this  where  the  wicked  cease  from  trou- 
bling, according  to  Job,  but  where  hell  fire  and  real 
trouble  just  begin  for  them,  according  to  dogmatists 
of  various  stripe  to-day.  The  marts  and  habitations 
of  nearly  six  million  people,  with  their  hopes,  sorrows, 
sins,  ambitions  and  disappointments,  lay  there  in  the 
haze  made  by  their  own  chimneys.  Underground  and 


26  NANCY  PRESTON 

above  ground  and  on  the  ground  they  hurried  like 
mad  for  a  dollar  or  two,  cheating  each  other,  stealing 
outright  when  they  thought  it  safe,  building  up  trick- 
eries to  get  other  people's  money  within  the  law  if 
they  could,  so  that  they  might  achieve  "honor"  as 
well  as  wealth;  the  courts  sat  daily  and  even  nightly 
to  untangle  the  poor  fish  from  the  heavy  nets  of  the 
police,  and  the  dark  streams  to  jails,  prisons  and  mad- 
houses ever  grew  wider ;  the  fish  not  yet  caught  in  the 
net  leaped  high  in  the  sunlight  and  showed  their  splen- 
did glitter  and  iridescence  on  Fifth  avenue.  Through 
Eleventh  avenue  they  ran  in  heavy  shoals,  some  taking 
the  hook  and  bait  and  perishing  and  others  not,  but 
none  ever  striking  upward  and  out  of  the  current  to 
the  sunshine  and  luxury  of  six  blocks  east. 

Michaelis  was  going  back  to  this  game.  It  did  not 
frighten  him.  It  made  him  smile.  Nancy  and  Bubs 
would  be  glad  to  see  him.  He  would  have  two  people 
in  the  world  to  help.  The  boy  was  six  years  old  and 
would  be  calling  him  Uncle  Michael  and  perhaps  would 
really  love  him  and  put  his  little  arms  around  his 
neck  and  snuggle  with  him  cheek  to  cheek. 

He  entered  the  office  of  the  hospital  and  asked  for 
his  information,  his  dignity  of  bearing  and  the  kindli- 
ness of  his  gray  eyes  getting  him  prompt  service.  He 
was  informed  that  William  Preston  had  died  in  the 
free  ward  three  months  before  and  the  address  of  his 
widow  was  given  him.  It  was  the  same  address 


NANCY  PRESTON  27 

across  the  Harlem  in  the  Inwood  section.  He  was  not 
informed  of  the  cause  of  Bill's  death  and  thought  it 
better  not  to  ask,  as  the  office  attendant  evidently 
thought  him  a  person  far  from  the  humble  if  exciting 
sphere  his  friend  had  occupied  in  life. 

Three  months.  Nancy  and  Bubs  could  come  pretty 
near  starving  in  that  time,  he  thought,  so  he  lost  no 
time  in  crossing  Fordham  bridge  and  finding  the  little 
flat,  three  tiny  rooms  high  up  in  a  block  of  cheap 
apartment  houses.  The  name  Preston  was  still  on  the 
hall  bell  and  he  went  up  six  flights  of  stairs  with  all 
speed  when  an  answering  click  came  to  his  ring. 

Her  arms  were  bare  and  covered  with  soapsuds  as 
Nancy  appeared  in  the  door.  All  of  the  straw-col- 
ored dye,  save  one  streak  above  her  right  ear,  had 
worn  itself  out  and  the  soft  dark  natural  color  of  her 
girlhood  had  returned.  It  did  not  bring  into  relief 
with  the  same  brilliant  effect  her  blue  eyes  but  it 
made  a  different  sort  of  beauty  and  a  beauty  sweeter 
to  behold. 

"Michael!"  He  was  sprayed  with  soap  and  water 
as  her  hands  went  up  in  astonishment  and  delight. 

' '  How  is  the  boy,  Nancy  ? "  he  asked. 

She  escorted  him  through  a  narrow  hall  to  the 
kitchen  where  steaming  and  well-filled  washtubs  in- 
formed him  how  she  was  making  a  living. 

"Bubs  is  sleeping,"  she  told  him.  "He  didn't 
turn  out  a  strong  child.  It's  going  to  be  a  big  fight 


28  NANCY  PRESTON 

to  save  him.  But  he  knows  all  about  his  Uncle  Mi- 
chael and  he  '11  be  glad  to  see  you  when  he  wakes  up. ' ' 

"And  Bill? "he  asked. 

"I  didn't  write  you."  She  studied  his  face  for  a 
moment.  "But  you  know.  I  got  in  word  through 
a  visitor  and  it  was  passed  along.  I  was  afraid  the 
letter  would  be  read,  afraid  they  might  follow  you 
after  you  got  out  and  I  knew  you  would  find  your  way 
back. ' '  She  attacked  the  pile  of  washing  with  savage 
energy  but  kept  the  story  going  rapidly,  hiding  her 
tears  from  him  as  they  splashed  against  the  wringer 
over  which  she  bent. 

"We  had  an  awful  time  last  winter,"  she  said. 
"Somebody  down  in  Wall  street  wanted  somebody 
else's  steamship  lines  or  railroads  and  went  out  after 
them.  By  the  time  he  got  what  he  wanted  a  dozen 
banks  were  in  trouble,  some  bank  presidents  gone  to 
Paris,  business  was  upset,  building  was  held  up,  the 
flour  market  was  cornered,  the  beef  barons  made  up 
their  losses  with  a  little  addition  to  cheaper  cuts  and 
.  .  .  you  know." 

"And  Bill  couldn't  get  a  job?" 

"He  could  not.  The  boy  was  awful  bad.  He  just 
had  to  eat,  Michael." 

' '  Can  you  make  me  down  a  bed  and  give  me  a  lodg- 
ing as  in  the  old  times  ? "  he  asked.  "  I  '11  go  out  and 
get  something  for  lunch." 


NANCY  PRESTON  29 

"You  are  sure  you  weren't  followed?"  she  asked, 
anxiously.  "They  never  gave  my  Bill  a  chance." 

"I  think  that  I  was,"  he  replied,  "but  I  lost  the 
shadow. ' ' 

She  followed  him  to  the  door.  Suddenly  her 
strength  left  her  and  the  tears  streamed  down  her 
face. 

"Now,  Nancy,"  he  remonstrated.  He  put  a  hand 
on  her  shoulder  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

"They  ain't  tears,  Michael,"  she  smiled.  "That's 
perspiration.  Hurry  back." 


CHAPTER  VII 

GLOOMY  COLE,  sometimes  called  The  Gloom, 
Old  Face,  and  Tombstone  by  his  associates  in 
the  employ  of  James  Tierney,  Incorporated,  entered 
the  assembly  room  of  his  boss 's  suite  and  made  himself 
as  inconspicuous  as  possible  among  the  many  opera- 
tives awaiting  assignments  to  cases  or  the  opportunity 
to  report  on  work  done.  He  had  taken  time  to  go 
by  his  lodging  and  lay  aside  the  laborer's  garb  and 
the  I.  W.  W.  badge  with  which  he  had  hoped  to  trick 
Mike  Horgan. 

There  was  lots  of  time  as  far  as  he  was  concerned. 
He  would  have  gladly  postponed  his  entrance  into  the 
private  office  of  "B.  H.,"  as  he  referred  to  Tierney 
in  abbreviation  of  his  old  police  sobriquet  of  Bone- 
head,  until  the  day  of  judgment. 

Gloomy  kept  his  ears  cocked  for  information  con- 
cerning the  mood  of  his  employer.  What  he  got  was 
not  encouraging.  The  men  leaving  the  inner  sanctum 
passed  the  word  along  that  Bonehead  was  taking  turns 
at  eating  the  carpet  and  gnawing  the  solid  mahogany 
furniture, 

"What's  the  trouble  with  him?"  the  man  sitting 
30 


NANCY  PRESTON  31 

next  to  the  depressed  one  asked  one  of  these  in- 
formers. 

"A  guy  he  was  just  getting  the  goods  on  strong 
gives  him  the  slip  this  morning,"  was  the  reply. 

"Himself?"  asked  Gloomy,  hopefully. 

"Give  Tierney  the  slip?"  gasped  the  operative. 
"Not  much.  Nobody  ever  gives  him  the  slip.  It  was 
poor  Willie  Dunham  got  in  wrong  and  he's  been 
fired." 

The  door  of  the  private  office  flew  open  and  Tier- 
ney's  walrus-like  face  appeared  in  it.  An  eye  long 
trained  for  quick  work  swept  the  room  and  picked 
out  Cole.  The  jaw  of  the  boss  dropped  in  sur- 
prise. 

"Whatcher  doin'  there?"  he  demanded. 

"Come  to  report,"  replied  Gloomy,  weakly. 

"Walk  in." 

Tierney  closed  the  door  behind  his  man  and  went 
to  his  revolving  chair  at  a  flat-top  desk. 

"Well?" 

As  usual,  the  unfortunate  Cole  found  himself  sit- 
ting with  the  sunlight  shining  full  on  his  face  while 
his  boss  sat  with  the  sun  warming  comfortably  the  fat 
on  his  neck.  There  was  no  way  to  hide  a  lie  from 
him  in  that  glare.  He  could  catch  the  lightest  change 
of  expression,  the  most  fleeting  shadow  that  might 
come  to  the  eyes  of  the  man  before  him. 

"I  joined  him  just  as  he  come  out  of  Sing  Sing  and 


32  NANCY  PRESTON 

we  struck  up  a  conversation  on  the  way  to  the  rail- 
road sta  ..." 

"Where  is  he  now?"  broke  in  Tierney  abruptly. 

' '  We  got  on  the  train  together  and  was  talking  when 
he  gave  me  a  Turkish  cigarette  ..." 

"I  ask  you  where  this  gentleman  crook  with  the 
twisted  brain  who  calls  himself  Michael  Horgan  is 
now  .  .  .  this  minute." 

"And  I  took  a  few  puffs  and  then."  Gloomy  Cole 
opened  his  large  hands  and  held  them  palm  outward 
toward  his  boss.  Tierney  knew  what  had  happened. 

"He  doped  you  and  got  away." 

"He  did." 

' '  Did  you  give  him  the  two  hundred  smacks  expense 
money  I  told  Agnes  to  let  you  have  ? ' '  asked  Tierney, 
leaning  over  and  pretending  to  be  in  breathless 
anxiety  to  get  the  money.  "Did  you  hand  it  over 
to  him  with  our  compliments  and  tell  him  J.  Tierney 
was  hired  by  the  bankers  and  jewelry  makers  and  ice 
cutters  of  Maiden  Lane,  New  York  City,  New  York, 
U.  S.  A.,  to  help  along  poor  persecuted  second  term 
burglars?  Did  yah?" 

"When  I  woke  up,"  answered  the  patient,  broad- 
faced  operative,  "I  counted  the  money  and  found  i£ 
all  there.  And  here  it  is."  He  slapped  a  wad  of 
ten  twenty  dollar  bills  on  Tierney 's  desk,  paying  not 
the  slightest  heed  to  his  ironical  outbursts.  Tierney 
studied  his  man  with  interest.  He  might  as  well  have 


NANCY  PRESTON  33 

tried  to  get  a  rise  out  of  the  statue  of  Liberty  with  a 
toothpick  for  a  lever.  Gloomy  was  a  stolid  one,  his 
own  type  of  the  old  police  days. 

"I'm  asking  you  if  you  can  explain  to  me  how  it 
was  you  ever  got  back  here  with  those  oak  leaves?" 
he  begged,  holding  out  the  crisp  yellow  notes.  "Did 
you  have  a  cop  escort  you?" 

"I  thought  I'd  hike  back  up  the  fine  and  inquire 
at  the  stations  around  Tremont  for  him,"  Gloomy 
continued,  "but  second  thought  brought  me  here  to 
ask  you  if  you  had  any  more  dope  about  his  people  so  I 
might  hunt  for  a  line  among  them." 

"Say,  I  could  murder  you  for  this  fine  piece  of 
work,"  snorted  Tierney,  "but  it  wouldn't  do  any 
good  and  it  would  be  too  expensive,  with  Agnes  com- 
ing around  for  contributions  for  a  floral  wreath.  I'm 
going  to  keep  you  out  after  Horgan.  There  ain  't  any 
relatives  I  can  find,  for  Horgan  ain't  his  right  name. 
He's  come  from  some  high-and-mighties  in  this  town 
and  they're  laying  low.  Only  once  did  any  inquiry 
come  to  the  police  about  a  man  suiting  his  description 
and  that  was  made  by  a  lawyer  who  for  giving  infor- 
mation has  a  clam  talking  like  a  United  States  Sena- 
tor when  he 's  wound  up  tight.  That  man  would  ache 
all  over  if  a  judge  compelled  him  to  give  a  direct  an- 
swer to  'What's  to-morrow?'  ' 

"Gimme  a  tip  on  what  to  do,  boss?"  asked  Gloomy, 
relieved  beyond  measure. 


34  NANCY  PRESTON 

"Git  up  to  Sing  Sing  and  find  out  all  you  can 
about  what  Horgan  done  during  his  bit.  He  might 
have  trained  himself  for  some  outside  job  and  that 
would  cut  down  the  field  some.  Find  out  if  he  ever 
wrote  to  anybody  or  got  any  letters.  Find  out  every- 
thing you  can  and  then  come  back." 

"Thank  you."  Gloomy  twiddled  his  derby  in  his 
fingers  as  he  paused  at  the  door.  "I  thought  me  job 
was  gone." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  replied  Tierney.  "If  you 
had  more  brains  I  would  have  fired  you.  But  you've 
learned  your  lesson.  Next  time  you  get  on  a  subject 
sink  your  teeth  in  like  a  bulldog  and  don 't  let  anything 
shake  you  loose,  hunger,  cold,  money,  sleep,  nothin'. 
Hop  along." 


CHAPTER  VIH 

AT  first  Michael  had  dreams  of  a  place  in  a  drug 
store.  He  tried  every  chemist's  shop  in  the 
Bronx  without  success  although  in  several  he  could 
have  landed  had  he  been  able  to  give  recommendations 
as  to  his  honesty. 

"It's  no  easy  job  to  break  from  one  profession  to 
another,  Nancy,"  he  said  one  morning  as  he  stared 
out  of  the  kitchen  window  across  a  descending  plain 
of  tin  roofs  and  jutting  scuttles  to  the  Hudson  and  the 
high-rising  Palisades  on  the  Jersey  side. 

"I  know  it,"  she  replied. 

"Swedenborg  even  went  so  far  as  to  establish  class 
circles  in  heaven,"  he  mused  aloud. 

"Some  of  those  foreigners  are  sure  smart  people," 
she  agreed  from  the  steam  of  the  tubs.  "In  the  old 
days  my  man  would  generally  bring  in  five  or  six  of 
them  in  the  course  of  a  year,  Wops,  Harps,  Heinies, 
and  even  a  Chink  once,  a  disciple  of  Confusion,  I 
think  he  said  he  was."  She  dried  her  hands  and 
arms  and  stirred  a  pot  of  oatmeal  on  the  glowing  stove. 

"I  think  it  was  staring  over  there  at  the  Palisades," 
he  continued,  "that  made  me  think  of  Swedenborg. 
In  his  work  on  'Heaven  and  Its  Wonders  and  Hell,' 
he  says  that  the  angels  of  the  Celestial  Kingdom  dwell 

35 


36  NANCY  PRESTON 

on  the  mountain  tops;  the  merely  second  rate  angels 
occupy  the  hills  and  the  what-you-might-call  the  scrub 
angels,  just  as  all  we  countless  common  people  might 
hope  to  get  to  be,  dwell  in  places  that  appear  like 
ledges  of  stone.  I  rather  like  that  idea,  especially  as 
he  points  out  that  rocks  signify  Faith. ' ' 

Nancy  waved  back  her  tumbling  hair  with  its  sheaf 
of  straw  and  joined  him  for  a  moment  at  the  window, 
her  cheeks  filled  with  roses  from  the  toil  over  stove 
and  tubs. 

"We  could  be  right  comfortable  over  there,"  she 
informed  him,  gazing  wistfully  at  the  great  gray  and 
brown  wall  across  the  river.  "Think  of  all  the  beau- 
tiful country,  the  fresh  air  and  fields  over  the  top. 
Bubs  would  be  a  little  man  inside  of  a  year  if  we  could 
live  in  the  open.  If  I  owned  as  much  land  over  there 
as  a  table  cloth  would  cover  I'd  make  the  table  cloth 
into  a  tent  and  off  we'd  go." 

' '  Speaking  of  angels,  high  and  low,  large  and  small, 
Nancy,"  he  asked,  his  lean  face  illumined  with  a 
smile,  ' '  how  is  Bubs  this  morning  ? ' ' 

"The  oatmeal  is  ready  and  if  you'll  take  it  to  him 
you  can  find  out  yourself. ' ' 

With  the  oatmeal  bowl,  Michael  tiptoed  down  a  nar- 
row hall  to  the  door  of  a  closet-like  room.  He  gave 
three  slow  raps  and  then  two  quick  ones. 

"Who  goes  there?"  demanded  a  feeble  voice. 

"Brother  Michaelis,  who  has  traveled  far." 


NANCY  PRESTON  37 

"Have  you  the  word  and  the  countersign?" 

"I  have." 

"Give  me  the  word." 

"Allaeazar.  Allacazam.  Hokus-pokus.  Conju- 
rokous." 

"Enter  with  the  countersign." 

Bubsy  had  pulled  himself  up  on  one  elbow  and  was 
frowning  toward  the  door.  His  curls  stood  up  about 
his  little  ears  like  the  lather  of  a  shampoo.  His  thin 
face,  white  as  paper,  was  as  beautiful  as  the  petal  of  a 
freesia  and  his  eyes  were  deeper  blue  than  his  mother's, 
a  true  violet. 

"Viands,  Worshipful  Sir,"  said  the  pilgrim,  with  a 
deep  obeisance. 

"Gee!"  The  little  lad  fell  back  on  his  pillow,  his 
hands,  like  blue-veined  marble,  motionless.  "I  don't 
feel  hungry,  Michaelis." 

"But  it's  against  the  laws  and  orders  of  the  broth- 
erhood not  to  be  hungry  at  eight  in  the  morning," 
urged  Horgan,  gently.  He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed  and  lifted  the  boy  in  his  left  arm,  feeding  him  the 
first  spoonful.  "There's  real  cream  for  you!  That 
stuff  would  put  fat  on  a  tenpenny  nail.  And  the 
sun's  shining  outside.  That's  the  boy.  Clean  it  up 
and  lick  the  bowl  and  there  '11  be  no  medicine  go  down 
you  to  spoil  it.  Honor  bright."  He  kept  up  the 
liveliest  patter  until  Bubs  had  cleaned  the  bowl  and 
was  laughing  as  he  allowed  himself  to  be  dressed. 


38  NANCY  PRESTON 

Never  did  he  slacken  his  flow  of  slang  and  elegant 
phrases,  mixed  in  a  hodgepodge  of  nonsense  and  wis- 
dom, but  several  times  Michaelis  bowed  his  head  over 
the  little  pipe-stem  legs  and  his  eyes  became  moist. 
All  the  boy  needed  was  plenty  of  good  food  and 
plenty  of  fresh  air  to  fight  off  the  gnawing  little  white 
devils  in  his  veins,  but  everything  else  in  the  world 
seemed  easier  to  get  than  those  two  things.  It  was  a 
pity  that  burglars  had  never  formed  a  benevolent  and 
protective  association  or  a  fraternal  order  with  funds 
to  provide  for  the  bereaved  dependents  of  members  In 
good  standing,  he  thought.  Policemen  had  such  an 
organization  and  they  were  no  less  liable  to  sudden 
taking-off. 

"Did  he  eat  it?"  came  from  the  mother  down  the 
hall. 

"He  did,  and  polished  the  plate,"  called  back  Hor- 
gan.  "And  now  we  are  off  for  an  elegant  stroll  down 
by  the  river." 

At  the  door  of  the  flat  Nancy  gave  him  fifteen  cents 
and  asked  him  to  get  a  piece  of  chuck  steak  on  the 
way  back  for  the  boy's  broth. 

Michael  laughed  as  he  slipped  the  dime  and  nickel 
into  a  pocket  of  his  well  worn  but  neat  trousers. 

"And  go  by  that  jewelry  factory  and  see  if  there's 
anything  doing  on  that  job,"  she  suggested.  "I  feel 
it  in  rny  bones  that  there's  a  good  salary  coming  to 
you  before  long." 


CHAPTER  IX 

AFTER  two  hours  they  returned,  Bubs  on  the 
back  of  his  faithful  friend. 

Brother  Michaelis  gave  the  three  long  and  two 
short  knocks  on  the  door  and  then  getting  on  all  fours, 
with  Bubs  astride  his  back,  pretended  to  be  a  knight's 
charger,  neighing  and  pawing  and  then  romping  into 
the  narrow  corridor  clear  back  to  the  kitchen. 

"Where's  the  meat?"  demanded  Nancy. 

"In  the  saddle  bag,"  replied  Bubs,  pulling  a  small 
package  from  his  friend's  pocket  and  dismounting. 

Michael's  long  face  was  bright  with  smiles  as  he 
rose  and  brushed  off  his  knees.  "And  I  landed  the 
job!"  he  announced.  "Five  dollars  a  day  and  only 
eight  hours  work,  half  day  Saturday  and  all  day  Sun- 
day. The  rest  of  our  lives  will  be  a  picnic.  And  it 
is  a  beautiful  place  to  work  in,  bubbling  pots  of  gold 
and  silver  for  plating,  boxes  of  bright  gems  to  set, 
pink  cotton  and  plush  cases,  rings  and  things  every- 
where, to  be  sold  by  the  gross.  And  all  I  have  to  do 
is  to  keep  the  machinery  oiled  and  tuned  up.  It  will 
be  having  fun  at  thirty  a  week. ' ' 

Nancy  was  overjoyed  by  the  news.  Times  had  been 
bitterly  hard  and  for  awhile  she  had  feared  that  her 

39 


40  NANCY  PRESTON 

husband's  old  friend  would  never  be  able  to  find  a 
way  of  earning  his  living  honestly.  Her  hands  trem- 
bled as  she  cut  up  the  little  piece  of  meat  and  prepared 
the  broth. 

Michael,  staring  out  of  the  window  toward  the 
Palisades,  was  even  more  grateful.  "You  know, 
Nancy,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  think  those  scrub  angels 
of  the  rocky  places  have  got  a  better  chance  than  the 
higher  class  angels  of  helping  out  the  folks  they  left 
behind.  They're  not  so  far  away  as  the  others.  I 
can  imagine  old  Bill  looking  over  the  edge  of  a  boulder 
and  straining  his  eyes  in  our  direction. ' '  He  glanced 
around.  Bubs  had  gone  to  another  room.  ' '  It  might 
sound  ridiculous  to  some  people  to  imagine  a  burglar 
edging  into  heaven,  but  those  people  who  think  it 
absurd  have  forgotten  the  last  act  of  the  Savior  on 
the  Cross,  His  promise  to  the  thieves  on  either  side  of 
Him." 

"Yes,  Michael." 

"Now  we've  got  a  good  start  to  make  something  out 
of  Bubs  and  we'll  just  get  down  to  the  job  and  give 
the  world  something  worth  while  in  him.  He  '11  square 
our  account  with  humanity." 

' '  You  Ve  been  a  father  to  Bubs, ' '  she  said.  ' '  You  've 
just  snatched  him  from  the  grave  and  you  know  how 
he  loves  you  .  .  .  more  than  he  loves  me.  .  .  .  You 
couldn't  do  anything  to  set  him  back.  Could  you?" 

"Nothing.     And  never  could  you,  Nancy." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  pantry  of  the  Widow  Preston  fairly  bulged 
with  good  things  to  eat  after  Michael's  second 
pay  day.  With  the  third  pay  day,  the  three  acquired 
clothes  and  shoes  and  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth 
pay  day  they  had  a  picnic  on  the  Jersey  side  of  the 
river,  crossing  on  the  Dyckman  street  ferry.  Summer 
was  advancing  and  the  foliage  crowning  the  Palisades 
was  thick  and  brilliant.  They  sought  and  found  little 
paths  made  by  adventurous  city  youths  which  took 
them  high  up  the  great  wall  cutting  them  off  from 
the  wide-spreading  country  to  the  west.  Michael, 
with  his  long  arms  and  legs,  could  have  made  the  top 
with  ease,  as  many  a  boy  from  the  Bronx  and  Harlem 
had  made  it,  but  the  cries  of  Bubs  and  his  mother 
brought  him  back  to  thrill  them  at  the  river's  edge 
with  tales  of  great  mountains  and  canyons  he  had 
read  of  in  his  library  days. 

Color  began  to  come  to  the  cheeks  of  the  lad.  The 
food  and  the  fun  and  the  fresh  air  were  telling.  Mi- 
chael knew  that  if  his  financial  status  did  not  change, 
the  boy  was  saved  and  he  had  come  to  love  him  so 
and  to  be  loved  so  by  him  that  he  felt  that  were  the 

41 


42  NANCY  PRESTON 

treasures  of  Golconda  opened  before  him  and  all  the 
policemen  and  detectives  in  the  world  were  in  conven- 
tion assembled  at  Omsk  or  some  other  such  remote 
place  he  would  not  have  even  the  slightest  desire  to 
consort  with  the  old  companions  of  earlier  days.  He 
had  finished  with  them. 

He  whistled  and  sang  at  his  work  and  the  foreman 
of  the  factory  liked  him  and  trusted  him.  His  higher 
intelligence  was  recognized  and  he  was  advanced  and 
given  a  position  in  the  shipping  department  at  five 
dollars  more  a  week.  Here  he  handled  thousands  of 
dollars'  worth  of  jewelry  each  day. 

So  far  he  had  not  come  across  any  one  who  had 
known  him  in  the  old  times  and  his  past  life  seemed 
well  buried.  Away  from  work  he  was  never  without 
his  faithful  little  pilgrim,  Bubs,  and,  save  for  their 
little  journeys  to  the  further  shore  of  the  river,  he 
was  content  to  remain  close  to  their  neighborhood. 
The  people  crowding  the  little  corner  stores  thought 
he  was  the  boy's  father  and  he  was  happy  to  have  them 
think  so. 

The  end  of  June  had  come.  Toward  the  close  of  the 
day's  work,  two  strangers  entered  the  factory  and  in- 
quired for  the  general  manager's  office.  They  were 
clean-shaven  men  approaching  middle  age,  with  a  pe- 
culiar turn  of  their  palms  backward  as  they  walked 
and  with  a  heavy  stride.  They  were  so  clearly  the 
physical  type  of  New  York  detectives  that  had  they 


NANCY  PRESTON  43 

entered  shouting  aloud  their  occupation  an  experi- 
enced crook  could  not  have  been  better  warned.  One 
was  of  Italian  and  one  of  Irish  descent,  an  easy  work- 
ing team  evidently.  Michael  Horgan  knew  them  both, 
Vegas  and  Murphy  of  the  Bronx  Bureau.  He  ducked 
behind  a  pile  of  boxes  instinctively.  There  could  be 
only  one  reason  for  their  visit — some  one  in  the  factory 
had  been  stealing — and  although  he  was  innocent  of 
any  thought  of  wrong-doing  Horgan  realized  that  the 
end  of  his  little  paradise  was  at  hand.  They  knew 
him  and  his  record.  There  was  time  for  him  to  reach 
the  flat  and  tell  Nancy  and  the  boy  good-by.  But  he 
dared  not  try  it.  The  pay-master  had  his  address,  a 
description  of  him  would  be  easy  to  give,  for  his  long 
narrow  face,  his  gangly  structure,  his  ready  smile,  his 
love  for  children  and  strays  of  all  sorts,  his  amusing 
patter  and  other  idiosyncrasies  marked  him  sharply 
against  the  common  run  of  the  employees. 

An  ex-convict  in  a  jewelry  factory!  He  could 
imagine  Vegas  and  Murphy  breaking  the  news  to  the 
management.  It  was  useless  to  remain.  If  all  the 
saints,  celestial,  middle-class  and  scrubs,  came  to  his 
assistance  their  evidence  would  be  laughed  to  scorn 
at  police  headquarters. 

Bubs  would  be  waiting  for  him  in  another  hour. 
He  had  promised  him  instruction  in  a  new  ritual, 
that  of  the  Legion  of  the  Come-Back-and-Put-It  -Over. 
He  managed  to  get  his  hat  without  any  one  seeing  him 


44  NANCY  PRESTON 

and  to  slip  to  the  street.  He  coughed  and  struck 
his  chest  several  times  to  try  and  get  rid  of  a  hard, 
choking  feeling  as  he  hurried  in  the  opposite  direction 
from  the  homeward  path  he  had  trod  so  faithfully  and 
happily  of  late. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MICHAEL,  giving  his  great  experiment  a  fair 
and  honest  start,  had  not  tried  to  sail  under 
false  colors  with  his  first  job.  The  firm  employing 
him  had  his  name,  Horgan,  and  his  right  address. 
Vegas  and  Murphy  would  want  no  further  evidence 
than  his  two  convictions.  "Whoever  had  been  doing 
the  stealing  was  safe  from  them.  The  big  net  would 
be  thrown  out  for  the  old  brother  of  the  Monastery 
of  La  Trappe  who  had  been  a  novice  in  the  world 
of  honesty  and  respectability  for  a  little  while  only 
to  be  made  the  fox  in  a  chase. 

And  what  a  net  it  was !  Michael  knew  the  style  of 
its  weaving,  for  he  had  studied  it  at  close  range.  A 
telephone  message  to  detective  headquarters  would 
send  men  with  his  description  to  every  one  of  the  great 
city's  outlets,  men  from  the  bureaus  and  police  sta- 
tions nearest  the  railroad  terminals  and  steamship 
lines,  so  that  not  a  moment  would  be  wasted.  Every 
platoon  of  city  cops  lined  up  for  inspection  and  de- 
tail for  duty  would  be  given  that  description  and  a 
look  at  his  photographs,  full  face  and  profile.  In  the 
streets  of  New  York  ten  thousand  men  would  be  on 
the  lookout  for  him.  To  the  nearer  cities  in  which  he 

45 


46  NANCY  PRESTON 

might  seek  refuge,  should  he  dodge  through  the  first 
lines  successfully,  telegraphic  descriptions  would  be 
rushed,  to  be  followed  later  by  printed  matter ;  incom- 
ing trains  in  these  cities  would  be  watched.  Mile  by 
mile  the  net  would  spread  in  all  directions,  finally  tak- 
ing in  all  cities,  towns  and  villages  large  enough  to 
boast  a  shanty  of  a  police  station  with  a  bulletin  board 
and  then  the  little  post-offices  of  hamlets  would  be 
placarded  with  his  photographs  and  a  reward-offer 
that  would  enlist  the  interest  of  bucolic  cupidity. 

For  a  time  his  heart  was  heavy  as  he  thought  of 
Nancy  and  Bubs  waiting  in  vain  for  him  that  evening. 
He  had  made  her  give  up  the  back-breaking  washtubs 
as  a  means  of  living  and  Nancy  had  responded  to  the 
little  measure  of  comfort  and  security  against  want  as 
a  tired  flower  will  to  a  cup  of  water.  And  Bubs! 
Why,  the  lad  had  pink  cheeks  and  round  ones  at  that ! 
Good  food  and  good  fun  with  Uncle  Michael  had  ral- 
lied the  army  of  red  corpuscles  within  him  and  the 
dreadful  white  hordes  were  in  fast  retreat.  He  would 
miss  his  mother's  laugh  of  happiness  as  much  as  he 
would  the  joy  of  his  namesake's  companionship. 

But  there  would  be  a  far  worse  state  of  affairs  for 
them  if  the  pack  struck  his  trail  and  ran  him  to  earth. 
Three  strikes  and  out,  he  remembered,  was  the  rule 
for  burglars.  He  was  brought  to  full  realization  of 
his  peril,  as  he  hurried  through  side  streets  toward  the 
Hudson  river,  by  catching  a  glimpse  of  a  familiar 


NANCY  PRESTON  47 

back  in  a  little  crowd  leaving  the  subway  station  at 
Dyckman  street.  On  stepping  from  the  curb,  the  man 
turned  his  head  to  watch  for  passing  vehicles  with  the 
unconscious  swiftness  which  is  the  possession  of  the 
New  Yorker.  It  was  the  broad-faced  shadow  he  had 
put  to  sleep  in  the  coach  coming  down  from  Ossining. 
He  drew  to  cover  and  watched  him.  He  hurried  east 
in  the  direction  of  the  jewelry  factory.  Three  men 
who  knew  him  were  already  on  the  job. 

The  safest  outlet  from  the  city  was  the  Dyckman 
street  ferry  to  the  Jersey  side.  If  he  kept  away  from 
Englewood,  the  nearest  city  of  any  considerable  size, 
with  its  one  police  station,  he  would  be  comparatively 
safe  from  the  placarding  for  time  enough,  perhaps, 
in  which  to  change  his  appearance  with  a  beard  and  a 
different  style  of  clothes  and  headgear.  It  was  the 
season  of  the  year  when  labor  was  in  demand  for  sub- 
urban building.  He  might  find  a  hiding  place  along 
the  wooded  Palisades  and  with  it  a  job  upon  which  he 
could  sustain  himself.  To  get  in  touch  with  Nancy 
was  a  matter  that  required  the  most  careful  thought, 
for  her  mail  would  be  watched  closely  and  her  every 
step  dogged  for  weeks  if  not  months  to  come. 

A  few  yards  from  the  ferry  he  got  a  lift  from  the 
driver  of  a  motor  truck,  slipped  him  his  fare  and  a 
half  dollar  and  remained  hidden  under  the  hood  until 
the  river  was  crossed  and  the  winding  ascent  of  the 
cliffs  made  safely.  There  was  no  one  in  sight  as  he 


48  NANCY  PRESTON 

dropped  from  the  front  of  the  vehicle  and  started 
northward  along  the  road  close  to  the  precipice. 

Although  he  did  not  know  it,  he  had  crossed  the 
State  line  between  New  Jersey  and  New  York,  run- 
ning east  of  the  old  town  of  Tappan,  when  night  came, 
and  was  back  in  the  jurisdiction  of  his  pursuers  when 
he  looked  about  for  a  place  to  sleep.  A  tiny  village, 
far  from  the  Northern  Railroad,  which  runs  through 
the  valley  .lying  west  of  the  Palisades,  dozed  in  the 
pleasant  early  summer  evening.  From  its  perch  high 
above  the  gently  flowing  stream,  which  pays  no  heed 
to  either  the  shadows  of  New  York's  bridges  and  the 
careless  dead  from  its  gutters  or  the  beauty  of  the 
shore  of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  land,  the  little  gathering 
of  friendly  houses  looked  across  to  Dobbs  Ferry.  A 
bell  tolled  solemnly  the  news  that  it  was  eight  o'clock 
and  time  for  the  meeting  at  the  fire  house  or  the 
church.  Dogs  bayed  the  sound. 

Michael  made  a  detour  and  as  the  stars  reached  their 
fullest  brilliance  and  a  meteor  burned  a  pencil's  path 
across  the  vast  he  found  shelter  in  a  little  summer 
house  tucked  between  two  great  gray  boulders.  Pull- 
ing his  coat  about  his  ears  he  stretched  out  on  a  bench 
to  sleep  with  the  scrub  angels,  the  smile  coming  back 
to  his  lean  countenance  as  he  thought  that  the  spirit 
of  Bill  might  be  nigh. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  sun  and  the  matin  chorus  of  the  birds  awak- 
ened him.  The  morning  was  faultless;  the  sky 
as  beautifully  blue  as  Nancy 's  eyes ;  the  river  a  broad 
band  of  silver  ribbon ;  dew  glistened  on  the  leaves  of 
the  trees  and  the  petals  of  daisies  while  the  golden 
buttercups  brimmed  with  it ;  a  humming  bird,  a  shim- 
mer of  green  satin,  paused  in  the  air  on  its  thunder- 
ing wings  to  empty  one  of  the  exquisite  goblets;  a 
friendly  chipmunk  sat  upright  on  a  rock  near  Michael 
and  gave  him  a  look  of  approval.  He  brushed  out 
his  clothes  and  took  a  careful  survey  of  the  territory. 
To  the  south  was  the  tiny  village  he  had  detoured. 
To  the  north  an  Italian  villa  in  process  of  building. 
Nearer  him  were  the  overgrown  foundations  of  a  coun- 
try house  that  had  been  destroyed  by  fire.  The  little 
structure  in  which  he  had  taken  shelter  had  belonged 
to  it.  Evidently  no  one  ever  visited  this  little  refuge, 
unless  the  birds  could  be  counted  on  as  visitors.  Their 
homes  were  tucked  in  all  corners  of  it  and  the  cheep  of 
their  fledglings  could  be  heard  demanding  breakfast. 
With  a  blanket  and  a  pillow,  a  pail  for  water,  a  towel 
and  soap  he  could  live  well  there  until  winter  came. 

49 


50  NANCY  PRESTON 

Willow  branches  could  be  woven  into  a  fine  wall 
against  wind  and  rain  on  the  weather  sides. 

A  steam  whistle  clamored  from  the  direction  of  the 
new  country  seat  and  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  and  ask 
for  a  job.  He  found  that,  because  of  the  isolation  of 
the  site,  the  contractor  was  having  great  trouble  in 
keeping  enough  men  on  his  pay  roll  to  carry  the 
building  along  on  schedule.  He  hailed  Michael  gladly. 
Was  he  a  skilled  worker?  Could  he  use  trowel  and 
mortar  board?  Michael  was  sure  that  he  could  lay 
mortar  with  the  next  man.  He  might  be  slow  and 
bungling  the  first  day  or  two  but  after  that  he  would 
be  all  right.  He  had  been  sick  a  long  time,  he  said, 
but  was  well  and  strong  again.  He  was  hired  on  the 
spot. 

A  boy  in  primary  school  can  learn  to  use  a  plumb 
line  and  level  in  a  day.  Michael  learned  it  in  an  hour 
and  when  the  whistle  blew  at  twelve  o'clock  he  was 
laying  brick  with  speed  and  skill  and  a  light  heart 
although  his  fingers  were  bleeding  and  his  back  ached 
a  little.  Mortar  smeared  his  clothes  and  hat  and  little 
splashes  of  it  were  on  his  face.  He  was  glad  of  it. 
He  hurried  down  the  road  to  the  little  village,  found 
its  store  and  laid  in  a  stock  of  provisions  that  would 
last  him  several  days.  He  was  already  established  in 
the  neighborhood  as  one  of  the  workmen  "up  the 
road."  His  passport  was  the  mortar  on  his  face, 
hands  and  clothes.  Toil  with  the  hands  and  the  marks 


NANCY  PRESTON  51 

of  it  will  admit  honest  man  or  knave  unquestioned  to 
any  town. 

The  contractor  was  a  kindly  but  shrewd  man.  Most 
of  the  laborers  working  for  him  came  from  distant 
towns  and  that  meant  time  out  of  bed  not  paid  for. 
They  were  sullen  in  consequence.  Michael  was  smil- 
ing and  eager  for  the  task  and  always  the  first  man 
on  the  job. 

"If  you  have  any  relatives  would  like  to  work  on 
this  job,"  the  contractor  said  one  day  to  him,  "bring 
them  along  and  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Dan  Burns 
they'll  work  for  me  until  I  croak.  I've  got  jobs 
enough  to  last  until  the  snow  flies." 

Burns  watched  the  new  mason  tap  a  brick  neatly 
down  in  the  mortar  as  he  waited  for  an  answer.  Mi- 
chael was  about  to  tell  him  that  he  had  no  relatives 
when  a  plan  for  getting  in  touch  with  Nancy  entered 
his  mind. 

1 '  I  only  have  a  sister, ' '  he  replied.  ' '  She 's  a  widow 
with  a  boy  six  years  old  and  needs  work.  She 's  a  fine 
laundress  and  housekeeper." 

"I  have  a  job  waiting  for  her  at  home,"  replied 
Dan  Burns.  "If  she  is  a  steady  worker  she'll  be  a 
member  of  the  family  for  life  and  never  know  want." 

"I'll  try  and  get  her  address,"  Michael  told  him. 
"It  may  take  a  little  while,  though.'* 

Every  night  for  more  than  a  week  he  studied  the 
problem  of  getting  in  touch  with  Nancy  without  giv- 


52  NANCY  PRESTON 

ing  his  pursuers  a  chance  to  strike  his  trail.  It  would 
have  to  be  tried  some  time,  for  she  and  the  boy  would 
need  the  money  he  could  earn  and  send  them  by  a 
plan  yet  to  be  devised.  Once  he  ground  his  teeth  and 
clenched  his  fist  in  his  refuge  among  the  rocks  as  he 
thought  of  Bubs  losing  what  he  had  gained  in  his 
fight  against  the  little  white  devils  in  his  blood.  The 
law  asked  too  much  when  it  demanded  his  clean  little 
life.  He  and  Nancy  were  legitimate  game  for  the 
hunt  but  poor  little  Bubs !  In  a  large  school  pad  he 
had  bought  in  the  village  store  he  wrote  down  ' '  Some 
of  the  greatest  handicaps  to  the  pursuit  of  human  hap- 
piness are  those  caused  by  lack  of  vision.  The  law 
has  no  vision,  no  foresight;  only  hindsight.  It  is  a 
rigid  thing,  a  very  thick  wall  with  each  brick  a  su- 
preme court  decision  laid  carefully  on  the  foundation 
of  the  ten  commandments  and  the  additional  com- 
mandments reaching  up  to  the  last  thin  layer  of  city 
ordinances  saying:  'Thou  shalt  not  carry  a  lighted 
cigar,  pipe  or  cigarette  in  the  subway,'  and  'Thou 
shalt  not  throw  waste  paper  in  the  streets. '  ' ' 

Thinking  that  his  great  experiment  promised  well, 
that  he  would  be  given  a  chance  to  go  straight  and 
serve  some  good  purpose  in  the  world  after  having 
paid  his  debt,  he  had  spent  most  of  the  money  earned 
in  the  jewelry  factory  on  much  needed  comforts.  The 
two  people  in  the  world  he  loved  and  was  loved  by 
would  soon  be  in  want.  His  week 's  pay  burned  in  his 


NANCY  PRESTON  53 

pocket.  He  dared  not  mail  it  from  the  village  and 
he  dared  not  travel  any  distance  in  order  to  mail  it 
from  some  other  town.  There  was  one  way.  Bill 
Preston's  way  in  the  old  days,  a  code  message  through 
the  personal  column  of  the  one  New  York  paper  which 
Nancy  read.  He  could  send  such  a  message  with  the 
money  to  pay  for  it  and  have  Dan  Burns  mail  it  for 
him  when  he  reached  the  city.  It  would  be  impossible 
for  the  detectives  to  trace  this,  he  felt  sure. 

The  next  evening  he  gave  Burns  the  letter  to  the 
business  office  of  the  newspaper  and  asked  him  to  mail 
it  when  he  was  on  his  way  home  in  his  machine. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NANCY  PRESTON'S  little  Bronx  flat  was  amply 
covered  for  the  police  department  by  Vegas  and 
Murphy,  plain  clothes  men  with  a  fine  record  for  team 
work.  For  James  Tierney,  Incorporated,  Gloomy 
Cole  and  another  operative  took  the  job  in  eight-hour 
shifts.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  patience,  a  little  ex- 
pense money  and  salary  day  coming  around  regularly. 

"If  Gloomy  had  only  held  on  to  that  Horgan  guy," 
reflected  Tierney,  comfortable  in  his  private  office  in 
the  skyscraper  section  of  New  York,  "the  Bronx 
Jewelry  Makers  Corporation  wouldn't  have  given  a 
good  job  to  a  two-term  man." 

"And  they  one  of  our  best  regular  customers," 
added  Agnes  Doherty,  beside  him  with  pad  on  her 
knee  and  vanity  bag  handy. 

"And  putting  him  in  the  shipping  department!" 
exclaimed  "B.  H."  "All  he  had  to  do  there  was 
to  change  the  address  of  the  largest  shipment  so  a  pal 
could  gather  it  in.  By  the  time  the  express  company 
unwound  enough  red  tape  to  start  looking  for  it  other 
shipments  would  have  followed  and  then  Horgan 
would  have  strolled  on  to  the  next  bunch  of  Incorpo- 
rated suckers. ' ' 

64 


NANCY  PRESTON  55 

"But  we  got  the  woman,"  hopefully  reminded 
Agnes. 

' '  Oh,  yes.  And  a  pretty  one,  too.  There  never  was 
a  likelier  one  stepped  Sixth  avenue  of  an  evening. 
She  with  her  straw-colored  hair  shining  out  through 
fog,  snow  or  rain  and  showing  off  her  blue  eyes  under 
the  sailor  hat.  Some  girl,  Nancy,  and  she  was  the 
last  one  you'd  think  would  quit  the  game  and  go 
straight  as  a  string.  We  used  to  watch  her  on  account 
of  Bill  Preston.  But  she  married  Bill.  And  it  shows 
you,  Agnes,  how  careful  you  got  to  be  in  this  busi- 
ness. Even  when  the  two  of  them  was  living  on  the 
square  we  kept  tabs  on  Bill  and  so  when  he  started 
crooked  again  we  were  right  there  with  him  and  got 
him.  We  got  him!" 

"He's  off  the  books  now,  isn't  he?"  she  asked. 

Tierney  swung  in  his  chair  and  stared  from  his 
sunlit  window  out  beyond  Manhattan  Island  to  the 
bay  where  silver  heels  were  kicking  between  the  Bat- 
tery and  Liberty.  Sure,  Bill  Preston  was  off  the 
books,  he  reflected,  but  it  was  his  own  fault.  He 
pulled  his  gat  when  cornered. 

"Anything  else?"  asked  Agnes,  folding  up  her  note 
book. 

"Nuthiny  he  grunted,  but  stirred  himself  from 
his  reflections  before  she  reached  the  door  and  shouted 
to  her  to  wait  a  minute. 


56  NANCY  PRESTON 

"You  got  the  personals  clipped?"  he  asked. 
"Bring  'em  in  and  I'll  look  'em  over." 

Pasted  on  separate  clips  of  paper,  the  personal  ad- 
vertisements printed  in  each  morning  paper  were  laid 
before  him.  He  began  a  careful  study  of  each,  check- 
ing it  off  as  he  hunted  what  might  be  a  hidden  message 
from  one  crook  to  another.  Out  of  the  crop  he  got  one 
that  held  him.  It  read: 

"Straw. — Dan     fires.    Houses     of     Harlem. 
Home.     Ting-a-ling.    Housekeeper. — Uncle." 

For  a  long  time  Tierney  stared  at  the  little  two-line 
advertisement,  pawing  with  a  mighty  right  hand  at 
his  bristles.  Then  he  clipped  it  clear  of  the  others 
and  pasted  it  on  a  sheet  by  itself.  "Have  I  got 
something  ? "  he  asked  himself,  repeating  the  words  of 
the  code  slowly.  Again  he  swung  in  his  chair  and 
stared  out  at  the  dancing  silver  heels  with  unseeing 
eyes,  his  fat  fingers  laced  behind  his  round  reddish- 
gray  hair. 

' '  Straw ! "  he  shouted  finally.  ' '  That 's  her.  Nancy 
Preston  with  her  straw-colored  hair.  Bill  used  to 
call  her  that.  Straw!  That's  Nancy!  Uncle! 
Maybe  the  kid  called  Horgan  that.  Maybe  he  did. 
That's  just  what  a  kid  would  call  his  dad's  friend 
living  in  the  same  house."  A  smile  of  happiness 
came  to  his  lips.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  as  if  he 


NANCY  PRESTON  57 

would  show  results  to  another  client  who  paid  him  an- 
nually a  good  fat  retainer  for  keeping  the  gentlemen 
of  the  night  from  taking  his  pretty  things.  "Now 
then. ' '  He  came  out  of  his  doping  stage  and  began  to 
reason  the  possible  relativity  of  this  jumble  of  words 
to  conditions  surrounding  Nancy  and  Michael. 

Dan  fires.  .  .  .  What  was  Dan  firing?  They  were 
not  in  the  arson  line,  just  plain  burglary.  Fires  stood 
for  a  name.  It  might  be  Burns.  Houses  of  Harlem. 
...  It  was  an  address  Michael  was  sending,  but  there 
were  lots  of  houses  in  Harlem  and  that  meant  nothing 
in  the  way  of  direction.  Perhaps  it  was  Dan  Burns' 
business.  He  might  be  a  builder  in  Harlem.  Home. 
Ting-a-ling.  .  .  .  That  was  easy.  It  meant,  "Look 
up  his  home  in  the  telephone  book." 

He  acted  on  the  advice  and  found  Dan  Burns, 
Builder,  in  the  book,  his  office  address  and  number 
and  also  his  home  address  and  number. 

"I  guess  we'll  get  Mr.  Horgan,"  he  said  as  he 
hurled  the  telephone  directory  into  a  corner  of  the 
room,  his  soul  exulting. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ONE  day,  while  Michael  was  anxiously  waiting 
results  of  his  attempt  to   get  in  touch  with 
Nancy,  Dan  Burns  gave  him  the  plans  of  the  villa 
and  asked  him  to  take  the  place  of  his  foreman  who 
had  failed  to  show  up. 

"Eight  here  is  where  we've  got  to  do  careful  work," 
he  advised  over  the  ground  floor  drawings.  ' '  In  this 
wall  of  the  sitting  room  you  see  what  looks  like  a 
closet.  Well,  it  ain't  a  closet.  The  door  will  be  hid- 
den and  only  the  plain  blank  wall  will  show.  It's  a 
hiding  place  for  the  old  geezer's  money  and  silver 
and  diamonds.  The  owner  of  this  house  is  taking 
no  chances  with  burglars  and  he  is  one  of  these  old 
misers  who  likes  to  have  a  fortune  in  cash  stored  away 
in  case  all  the  banks  go  wrong  or  there's  a  revolution 
or  anything  like  that.  The  door  swings  open  at  the 
touch  of  a  button  and  a  little  conduit  protects  the 
wires  so  they'll  be  safe  from  mice  and  wear  and  tear. 
The  button  sets  in  the  wall  over  here  under  the  wall 
paper  and  I  guess  he  aims  to  hang  a  picture  over  the 
spot  to  guard  against  somebody  accidentally  touching 
it.  Nearly  all  these  fine  houses  have  a  vault  like  this 

58 


NANCY  PRESTON  59 

but  generally  they  depend  on  the  old-fashioned  tum- 
blers to  open  and  shut  it. ' ' 

Michael  followed  the  contractor  closely  and  prom- 
ised to  put  the  finishing  touches  on  the  job  him- 
self. 

"This  is  a  remote  place  to  have  a  lot  of  money 
stored,"  he  suggested. 

"If  he  had  any  brains  he'd  leave  it  all  in  his  New 
York  bank, ' '  laughed  Burns,  ' '  but  this  old  money  hog 
has  been  at  the  grabbing  game  so  long  that  he  can't 
go  a  day  without  the  feel  of  the  stuff  in  his  hands. 
Honest.  I  been  to  see  him  about  this  house  dozens  of 
times.  He's  got  a  private  office  where  he  can  watch* 
his  cashier  all  during  business  hours  and  his  eyes  and 
mouth  water  whenever  two  gold  pieces  clink  together. 
Down  in  "Wall  street  they  say  he's  so  rich  he  couldn't 
begin  to  figure  out  where  he  stands." 

"I  don't  envy  him." 

"Me  either.  But  I'm  doing  all  I  can  to  relieve 
him  of  some  of  the  load. ' ' 

The  contractor  was  turning  away  when  he  remem- 
bered something.  "Your  sister  was  on  the  telephone 
this  morning  and  I  come  near  forgetting  to  tell  you," 
he  said.  Michael  hid  his  anxiety  with  an  effort. 
"She's  coming  around  to-night  to  talk  with  my  wife 
about  the  job.  I  hope  she  takes  it.  If  you  want  to 
send  her  any  message  you'd  better  write  it  out  for  I 
might  forget  it." 


60  NANCY  PRESTON 

"Thank  you.  I'll  write  one  for  you  before  we 
knock  off.  I'd  like  to  send  her  some  money." 

As  he  worked  on  the  vault  for  the  Wall  street  man, 
Michael  gave  careful  thought  to  the  form  of  the  letter 
he  would  write  Nancy.  His  heart,  at  times,  beat  very 
fast.  She  was  so  brave  and  kind,  so  wholesome  and 
sweet,  despite  all  the  past.  Struggle  and  sorrow  had, 
indeed,  brought  out  the  gold  within  her.  The  dross 
had  been  burned  away  in  the  furnace.  And  Bubs, 
the  very  thought  of  the  lad,  brought  a  hint  of  tears  to 
his  eyes.  How  the  boy  adored  him ! 

At  noon  he  hurried  to  his  summer  house  refuge  and 
wrote  this  letter  which  he  sealed  with  all  his  cash  and, 
later,  gave  to  the  contractor. 

"Dear  Nancy: 

' '  Burn  this  as  soon  as  you  read  it.  Do  not,  by 
any  means,  take  it  a  step  from  the  house.  Chew 
it  and  swallow  it  if  necessary.  I  am  working 
for  Mr.  Burns  out  in  New  Jersey,  not  far  away, 
but  it  is  too  early  yet  for  us  to  try  and  see  each 
other.  The  bulls  are  hard  after  me.  Some  one 
in  the  jewelry  factory  was  a  thief  and  the  mo- 
ment I  saw  the  men  from  headquarters  enter  the 
place  I  knew  they  would  hold  me  on  the  two  old 
convictions.  Even  if  there  was  a  chance  of  my 
winning  in  court  the  odds  were  too  great  to  risk, 
a  life  term  if  convicted.  So  I  had  to  get  away 
in  a  hurry.  Take  the  place  with  Mr.  Burns.  I 
am  going  to  do  the  best  I  can  to  shake  myself 
free  and  if  I  do  am  going  to  try  for  a  degree  in 
medicine  in  some  distant  city  and  start  prac- 


NANCY  PRESTON  61 

tising.  I  don't  know  whether  it  pays  to  try  to 
help  the  souls  of  people.  Perhaps  they  haven't 
got  any.  But  I'll  know  about  that  when  my 
great  experiment  is  ended  and  may  write  down 
the  result.  I  know  that  you  will  not  believe  me 
guilty  for  a  moment.  Don 't  try  to  get  in  touch 
with  me.  Take  the  job  and  hang  to  it  for  the 
boy 's  sake.  Press  him  to  your  breast  for  me,  my 
dear,  my  dear." 

That  night  he  went  to  the  edge  of  the  high  cliff  and 
strained  his  eyes  to  the  south  where  the  lights  of  New 
York  made  a  great  white  blister  in  the  sky,  shutting 
off  the  stars  above. 


CHAPTER  XV 

JAMES  TIERNEY,  Incorporated,  put  two  men  on 
the  house  of  Daniel  Burns,  Builder.  It  was  no 
mean  house,  for  the  Burns  family  had  prospered. 
They  had  long  passed  the  apartment  stage  of  existence 
and  their  residence,  in  what  might  be  called  a  fashion- 
able section  of  the  upper  West  Side,  often  boasted 
its  line  of  automobiles  when  Mrs.  Burns  entertained. 
Her  guests,  occasionally  noted  in  the  Sunday  news: 
papers  under  the  discreet  general  heading  of  "Fur- 
ther Happenings  in  Society,"  to  distinguish  their  so- 
cial caliber  from  events  of  like  nature  given  by  the 
Fifth  avenue  folk,  included  such  notables  as  Supreme 
Court  Justice  Felix  Muldoon,  Surrogate  Francis  X. 
Muldoon,  City  Chamberlain  Grattan  Muldoon,  Com- 
missioner of  Charities  Aloysius  Clancey,  Coroner's 
Physician  Martin  Lacey  and  always,  bringing  up  the 
end  magnificently,  City  Magistrate  De  Peyster  Schuyl- 
kill,  of  the  true  Knickerbocker  strain,  a  part  of  whose 
obligation  to  Tammany  was  social. 

Mrs.  Burns  even  knew  some  of  the  most  widely  ad- 
vertised celebrities  of  the  divorce  courts  by  their  first 
names  and  had  served  on  committees  with  them,  her 
name  being  printed  with  theirs.  Daniel  didn  't  mind, 

62 


NANCY  PRESTON  63 

for  he  liked  all  humanity  in  his  big  way,  unless  it  was 
of  the  Reform  element  in  politics,  and,  with  his  ad- 
vancing fortunes  had  bought  his  wife  "a  truck  load" 
of  silver  for  the  table  and  a  van  load  of  large  hats 
and  highly  colored  gowns  for  her  wardrobe. 

Tierney  chuckled  when  his  man  Gloomy  Cole  re- 
ported that  "Straw"  Nancy  had  taken  a  job  as  house- 
keeper with  the  Daniel  Burnses,  had  sold  out  her  few 
household  belongings,  given  up  her  little  flat  and 
washtubs  and  with  her  boy  was  snugly  sheltered  on  the 
top  floor  of  the  contractor's  home. 

Nancy  had  managed  to  give  the  slip  to  the  head- 
quarters men,  Vegas  and  Murphy,  but  not  to  Gloomy, 
who  had  to  redeem  himself  for  the  cigarette  episode. 
This  pleased  Tierney.  He  could  now  lead  the  hunt 
with  his  own  pack  without  fear  of  having  his  trails 
broken. 

"Agnes,"  he  laughed,  "I  knew  Daniel  Burns  when 
he  was  just  Danny  Burns  with  one  horse  and  a  small 
truck  hardly  big  enough  to  carry  a  half  dozen  two-by- 
fours.  Some  morning  he'll  wake  up  with  his  St. 
Patrick's  Day  silk  hat  and  his  wife's  tarara  gone, 
along  with  all  the  gold  dishes  and  Bedelia's  grand 
opera  jewels  worth  the  ransom  of  a  United  States 
consul  in  Mexico." 

"They  do  fly  high,  don't  they?"  Agnes  joined  his 
laugh. 

"They  do,"  he  agreed,  "but  their  engine  is  skip- 


64  NANCY  PRESTON 

ping  and  if  they  ain  't  careful  they  '11  make  an  expen- 
sive landing.  There  was  never  a  better  lay-out  for  a 
big  job.  A  jane  inside  and  a  gun  outside.  Believe 
you  me,  I'm  going  to  close  in  on  'em  right  now. 
Gimme  me  derby. ' '  He  reached  in  the  top  right  hand 
drawei  of  his  desk  and  lifted  out  an  automatic  which 
he  slipped  in  his  hip  pocket. 

"Gimme  that  list  of  contracts  Danny  is  putting 
through,"  he  ordered  as  he  placed  his  hat  at  a  slight 
angle  before  a  wall  mirror.  "Tell  old  Texas  Darcy 
to  pack  his  gun  and  get  down  in  the  runabout.  If  I 
ain't  mistaken  that  Italian  villa  over  in  Jersey  is 
about  where  we'll  get  Mr.  Horgan." 

"Is  he  desperate?"  asked  Agnes. 

"Dunno,  yet.  But  he'll  have  to  go  some  to  beat 
Texas  to  it.  I  Ve  seen  that  old  crap  shooter  roll  a  tin 
can  up  the  road  with  his  gat.  Good-by,  Agnes.  I'll 
telephone  you  when  to  tell  Gloomy  to  walk  in  on  Mrs. 
Burns  and  break  the  news  to  her  and  take  'Straw' 
Nancy  to  the  West  Hundredth  street  station." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  SENSE  of  neatness  as  well  as  of  economy  made 
Michael  purchase  a  pair  of  working  trousers 
and  a  flannel  shirt  in  the  village.  The  suit  in  which 
he  had  escaped  from  the  jewelry  factory  he  cleaned 
as  best  he  could  and  folded  away  in  waterproof  sheath- 
ing paper  under  the  bench  in  the  abandoned  summer 
house.  Later,  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  make  a 
start  for  some  distant  city,  he  would  have  money 
enough  to  equip  himself  with  the  proper  garments. 
But  that  time  would  not  be  until  the  pictures  of  him- 
self placarding  police  stations  and  postoffices  had 
grown  dim  and  cops  and  cupidous  people  had  wearied 
of  looking  at  them.  His  beard  was  of  slow  growth 
and  thin  and  seemed  rather  to  accentuate  his  lean  dis- 
tinguished features  than  to  blur  them. 

The  day  before  he  was  to  receive  his  first  communi- 
cation from  Nancy  was  a  Sunday.  After  making  him- 
self some  coffee  in  the  shelter  of  the  donkey  engine, 
used  in  hoisting  stone  lintels  into  place  as  the  villa 
rose  under  the  hands  of  his  fellow  masons,  he  ex- 
plored carefully  the  brink  of  the  Palisades.  Intuition 
or  the  natural  caution  of  the  hunted  animal  made  him 
seek  an  avenue  of  escape  that  would  not  be  known  to 

65 


66  NANCY  PRESTON 

possible  pursuers.  There  were  no  little  paths  down 
the  steep  precipice  to  the  river  like  those  that  he  and 
Bubs  had  found  near  the  Dyckman  ferry.  The  black 
rock  jutted  out  here  and  there  in  ledges  to  which  one 
might  leap  if  desperately  driven,  places  where  eagles 
could  find  refuge  but  not  man.  At  the  forge,  where 
the  tools  of  the  workmen  were  sharpened,  he  could 
fashion  a  grappling  hook  and,  with  a  rope  attached, 
he  might  manage  to  descend  to  the  base  of  the  cliff. 
He  determined  to  try  his  hand  at  this  during  the  com- 
ing week.  He  returned  to  his  shelter  and  spent  the 
day  writing  in  his  school  pad.  One  passage  he 
scratched  out  and  then  wrote  in  again :  "The  hunt 
is  the  oldest  of  the  sports  of  man.  If  it  so  deadens 
a  human  being's  sensibilities  that  he  can  kill  with 
joy  a  she-bear  or  doe,  harmless  in  its  own  wild  sur- 
roundings, and  deprive  its  young  of  the  mother 's  milk, 
what  must  it  do  to  him  who  hunts  his  own  kind  ? ' ' 

In  the  evening  he  watched  the  reflection  of  the  sun- 
set over  the  mansioned  hills  of  Dobbs  Ferry  and  Tar- 
rytown,  beheld  the  pale  stars  appear  between  little 
clouds  with  golden  edges  against  the  deepening  blue 
and  listened  to  the  evening  songs  and,  later,  the  bed 
calls  of  the  birds.  As  night  came  and  the  chorus  of 
insects  stridulated  on  the  summer  air  he  turned  his 
face  southward  and  stared  at  the  white  apophysis  in 
the  sky  above  New  York.  The  blister  whitened  and 
widened  as  the  full  glare  of  the  countless  lights  of  the 


NANCY  PRESTON  67 

city  of  six  million  was  achieved.  Far  below  him  the 
placid  Hudson  reflected  the  stars;  back  of  him 
stretched  a  belt  of  heavily  wooded  land  and  beyond 
this  the  spreading  acres  of  the  open,  starlit,  fragrant, 
peaceful,  where  were  the  friendly  lights  of  cottage 
windows. 

He  returned  to  the  willow  thatched  shelter  between 
the  boulders  and,  not  daring  to  use  a  light  for  fear  of 
attracting  the  attention  of  some  village  couple  caught 
in  the  gossamer  net  of  love,  stretched  on  his  bench  and 
slept  with  his  "scrub  angels." 

The  morning  air,  when  he  jumped  to  his  feet  with 
the  first  beam  of  the  sun,  was  heavy  with  the  incense 
of  growing,  blossoming  things.  The  blood  tingled  in 
his  veins  and  he  could  not  but  think  of  the  contrast 
of  a  free  life  in  the  open  and  the  life  behind  stone 
and  steel  a  little  way  up  the  river.  If  men  inclined 
to  offend  the  laws,  he  thought,  could  but  realize  what 
they  had  in  the  earth  itself,  the  sky,  the  stars,  the 
wind  and  rain,  the  sunrises  and  sunsets,  the  glorious 
trees  and  pleasant  fields,  healthy,  simple  tasks  await- 
ing them  on  every  hand,  and  then  imagine  the  shift 
to  a  cell,  a  constant  gray  light,  toil  without  remunera- 
tion, the  shuff-shuff-shuff  of  thousands  of  feet  over 
the  stone  floors  to  and  from  the  cell  corridors,  to  eat, 
to  work,  to  sleep,  there  would  be  no  deliberate  crime. 
A  shudder  passed  through  him.  It  would  be  worse 
than  death,  and  the  big  net  from  police  headquarters 


68  NANCY  PRESTON 

by  this  time  had  been  spread  the  country  over  to  catch 
his  fleeing  feet,  trip  him  and  hold  him  until  the  courts 
sent  him  back  for  life.  For  life ! 

The  whistle  of  the  donkey  engine  took  him  to  his 
task  on  the  villa,  now  risen  a  story  and  a  half  with 
its  miser's  vault  all  finished  save  for  the  placement 
of  the  secret  door. 

Burns  came  out  from  the  city  early  and  with  a  grin 
of  delight  handed  him  a  note.  It  was  from  Nancy. 
"She's  doin'  fine,"  he  informed  him,  "an'  we  couldn't 
get  along  without  her. ' ' 

It  was  too  early  for  her  to  run  such  a  chance,  Mi- 
chael thought,  as  he  drew  aside  from  the  other  workers 
and  opened  the  envelope.  He  read  with  quick  glances 
over  his  shoulder  from  time  to  time : 

"Michael: 

"For  God's  sake  beat  it.  The  house  is 
watched.  The  bulls  may  follow  Mr.  Burns  any 
day.  I  thought  I  had  lost  them.  I  know  you 're 
running  straight.  Don 't  worry  about  me.  Just 
get  away  from  there.  Bubs  is  fine  but  if  they 
get  you  it  will  kill  me. 

"NANCY." 

Down  the  highway  from  the  village  came  at  high 
speed  a  runabout.  Before  Michael  could  seek  cover, 
it  was  in  the  road  leading  up  to  the  house  and  within 
a  few  feet  of  him.  A  heavily  built  man  with  bristly 
mustache  and  reddish  hair  touche?  with  gray  was 


NANCY  PRESTON  69 

standing  with  the  door  open,  searching  every  work- 
man's face.  The  other,  trim  of  build,  of  fair  com- 
plexion and  with  sharp  rat-like  features,  had  hopped 
from  behind  the  wheel  to  the  ground. 

"There  he  is!"    Tierney's  heavy  forefinger  was 
leveled  straight  toward  Michael. 


CHAPTER  XVH 

"T  X  THAT'S  all  this?"  shouted  Dan  Burns.    His 
V  V    workmen  dropped  their  tools  to  gape  at  the 
little  drama  unfolding  before  them. 

' '  Git  'em  up !  Git  'em  up ! "  shouted  Texas  Darcy, 
his  nervous  cigarette  stained  fingers  twitching  as  he 
pushed  an  automatic  against  Michael's  stomach.  His 
sharp  features  were  tight  with  an  eagerness  to  slay. 

Michael's  answer  was  to  seize  his  wrist  and  twist 
the  weapon  aside  as  he  fired.  With  the  report,  Tier- 
ney  dropped  in  his  seat  in  the  runabout,  his  face  white, 
a  stream  of  blood  coursing  from  a  wound  in  the  right 
jaw.  The  bullet  had  struck  a  rock  and  in  its  deflec- 
tion had  grazed  the  detective.  Michael  and  Tierney  's 
man  went  to  the  ground  in  a  clinch,  the  workmen 
scattering  out  of  range.  As  they  fought,  Michael  for 
his  life  and  Darcy  to  free  his  pistol  hand,  Tierney  re- 
covered from  the  shock  of  his  wound  and,  drawing  his 
pistol,  slid  from  the  machine  to  hurl  his  igreat  weight 
into  the  fray. 

Burns  was  no  coward  and  although  he  knew  Tier- 
ney and  his  business  he  was  not  the  kind  of  man  to 
stand  by  and  see  murder  done  in  the  name  of  the  law. 
"Just  a  minute!"  he  cried,  catching  Darcy  by  the 

70 


NANCY  PRESTON  71 

back  of  the  neck  and  dragging  him  from  Michael's 
arms.  "Git  back  there,  Jim!"  Tierney,  dazed  by 
the  fury  that  had  swept  over  him  with  the  warm  flow 
of  blood,  obeyed  and  the  contractor  protected  Michael 
from  further  attack.  Tierney  pulled  a  pair  of  hand- 
cuffs from  his  coat  pocket.  "I  got  a  warrant  for  this 
thief,"  he  panted.  "You're  making  a  mistake, 
Danny.  If  he  wants  to  resist,  we're  here  to  give  him 
a  fight." 

There  wasn't  the  faintest  chance  of  escape.  Mi- 
chael held  out  his  hands  and  in  a  second  the  steel 
bracelets  were  snapped  on  his  wrists.  Darcy  threw 
open  the  rumble  seat  of  the  car  and  motioned  the 
prisoner  to  get  in  beside  his  employer.  "And  if  you 
as  much  as  turn  your  head,"  he  warned,  "I'll  put  a 
bullet  through  the  base  of  your  skull. ' '  Tierney 
wiped  the  blood  from  his  cheek  and  threw  in  his 
clutch. 

"Mr.  Burns!"  Michael  called  to  the  contractor. 
"Give  her  a  fair  chance,  won't  you?  Before  God  I'm 
innocent." 

"Your  sister?"  he  asked. 

"Sister!"  laughed  Tierney.  "Say,  Danny  Burns, 
that  woman  in  your  house  ain't  his  sister.  She's  an 
old  timer  and  so  is  this  guy.  But  you  won't  have  to 
bother  about  that.  She  won't  be  there  when  you  get 
home.  I'll  want  you  as  a  witness  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 


72  NANCY  PRESTON 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  either  of  them,"  re- 
plied Burns. 

"But  you  saw  the  fight  he  put  up,  I  .guess,"  re- 
minded Tierney,  "and  a  little  charge  of  felonious  as- 
sault goes  along  with  this  robbery  case,  I  guess. ' ' 

The  machine  was  off  in  a  cloud  of  dust  for  the 
ferry,  Darcy  reminding  Michael  of  his  peril  by  occa- 
sionally touching  him  between  the  shoulders  with  his 
pistol.  At  the  Fort  Lee  ferry  house  Tierney  hand- 
cuffed his  prisoner  to  Darcy  while  he  telephoned 
Agnes  Doherty. 

"Tell  Cole  to  git  Straw  Nancy  around  to  the  sta- 
tion on  a  charge  of  aiding  and  abetting  or  something 
like  that,"  he  instructed  his  secretary.  "If  Mrs. 
Burns  makes  a  row  just  break  the  news  to  her  that 
she's  an  old  customer.  Maybe  if  Gloomy  tells  her  to 
look  at  that  yellow  streak  in  her  hair  she'll  be  able 
to  dope  it  out." 


CHAPTER  XVin 

EXCEPT  for  such  minor  details  as  preventing 
Michael  Horgan  from  getting  bail  and  arrang- 
ing the  evidence  for  the  district  attorney's  office, 
Gloomy  Cole,  when  he  was  informed  of  the  arrest,  felt 
assured  that  the  clean-up  of  the  case  would  come  with 
the  locking  up  of  Nancy  Preston.  It  had  been  a  long 
watch  and  when  he  received  the  word  from  Tierney's 
office  to  "make  the  collar"  he  stepped  to  the  task 
with  a  lighter  heart  than  his  wide  and  dismal  counte- 
nance could  possibly  suggest. 

All  afternoon  there  had  been  visitors  to  the  Burns' 
home,  for  it  was  the  receiving  day  of  the  contractor's 
wife.  Tammany's  elite  had  rolled  up  and  entered 
and  lively  music  from  the  open  windows  of  the  draw- 
ing room  told  of  dancing  and  a  merry  enough  party. 
In  the  forenoon  an  expressman  had  called  for  the 
family  baggage  and  it  was  evident  that  the  next  day 
would  see  Mrs.  Burns  and  her  two  half-grown  daugh- 
ters off  to  the  seashore.  Trailing  the  tribe  in  its 
hegira  would  not  have  been  so  simple  a  job.  Cole 
was  grateful  that  his  chief  had  closed  in  on  his  man 
and  with  his  usual  efficiency  was  putting  the  ease 

73 


74  NANCY  PRESTON 

safely  away  for  the  summer  months  at  any  rate.  With 
the  court  recesses  coming  on,  there  would  be  no  chance 
of  a  trial  before  autumn,  but  the  clever  gentleman 
burglar  who  had  doped  him  with  a  cigarette  would  be 
safe  in  the  Tombs  for  the  interim  and  probably  Nancy 
Preston  as  snugly  put  away. 

The  butler  was  serving  refreshments  when  Gloomy 
pressed  the  button  at  the  head  of  the  brownstone  steps. 
Nancy,  in  a  maid 's  dress,  a  bit  of  lace  resting  as  lightly 
as  a  white  butterfly  in  her  brown  hair,  her  blue  eyes 
as  clear  and  bright  as  those  of  a  girl  of  sixteen,  an- 
swered the  door.  She  recognized  the  shadow  immedi- 
ately and  knew  that  Michael  had  not  gotten  her  warn- 
ing in  time.  Her  first  thought  was  of  Bubs,  playing 
in  her  comfortable  room  on  the  top  floor.  She  had 
just  left  him,  after  slipping  from  her  duties  for  a 
moment  to  put  her  arms  about  his  little  body  and  steal 
a  kiss.  If  this  sinister  looking  man  took  her  away, 
what  would  become  of  him?  Panic  came  to  her 
heart  and  she  stood  staring  at  Tierney's  operative 
with  pitifully  white  face,  her  knees  shaking  under  her. 

"What  is  it,  please?"  she  managed  to  ask.  For 
answer  he  moved  his  coat  slightly  so  that  she  could 
see  the  badge  pinned  beneath  it. 

"Who  do  you  want  to  see?" 

"I  want  you  to  come  with  me,"  he  said.  "There 
ain't  no  use  in  making  trouble.  Get  your  hat  and 


NANCY  PRESTON  75 

take  off  your  apron.  There's  a  man  on  the  job  back 
of  the  house.  You  can't  get  away." 

"Me?"  she  asked.  "What  have  I  done?  I'm 
working  here  for  a  living  for  my  little  boy  and  my- 
self." 

"Interfering  with  the  due  process  of  law,"  he  an- 
swered glibly  enough.  "Helping  a  burglar  to  get 
away.  Better  come  along  without  making  a  row." 

Nancy  held  herself  to  her  feet  by  clinging  to  the 
edge  of  the  open  door.  "For  Christ's  sake,"  she 
pleaded,  "have  some  heart.  I've  been  a  clean  honest 
woman  for  seven  years.  If  you  lock  me  up  what  will 
my  little  boy  do  ?  He  isn  't  strong  like  most  children. 
If  you  separate  him  from  me  it  will  put  him  in  his 
grave.  You'll  murder  him  .  .  .  you'll  murder  him." 
The  tears  were  flowing  down  her  cheeks  as  she  looked 
in  vain  for  a  sign  of  compassion  in  the  face  of  the 
man  in  the  door.  Suddenly  a  black  curtain  fell  be- 
fore her  eyes  and  she  dropped  to  the  floor  of  the 
entry. 

"Hey!"  called  Cole  as  the  butler  entered  the  hall* 
"Get  Mrs.  Burns  quick.  I  don't  want  to  break  up  no 
party  here." 

"What's  the  matter?"  the  butler  demanded,  pick- 
ing up  Nancy  in  his  arms. 

"I'm  arresting  this  woman.  Take  her  in  that  room 
back  there  and  call  the  missus."  He  pointed  to  a 


76  NANCY  PKESTON 

little  cubby  hole  at  the  end  of  the  hall  where  Dan 
Burns  was  wont  to  welcome  the  less  socially  ambitious 
of  his  friends. 

In  a  few  moments  the  contractor 's  wife  joined  them, 
Cole  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

"Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Burns,"  he  began,  "but  I've  got 
this  girl  under  arrest  and  she's  fainted." 

"Under  arrest?"  she  repeated.  "What  has  she 
done?"  Nancy  lay  like  a  dead  woman  on  a  lounge 
against  the  wall. 

"She's  mixed  up  with  a  burglar  named  Mike  Hor- 
gan,"  Cole  explained. 

"A  burglar!"  Mrs.  Burns  was  horrified.  The 
music  of  the  dance  and  the  laughter  of  her  guests 
came  faintly  to  them  through  the  heavy  mahogany 
door.  "This  is  horrible!"  she  whispered.  "My 
guests  cannot  be  offended  with  such  an  intrusion. 
Get  her  out  of  here  as  quickly  as  possible.  Take  her 
downstairs  and  out  at  the  servants'  door.  Quick 
about  it."  Her  anger  began  to  rise.  "And  if  you 
bungle  the  job  Mr.  Burns  will  have  to  know  the  rea- 
son why,"  she  warned. 

"She'll  come  around  in  a  minute,  ma'am,"  said  the 
butler,  loosening  Nancy's  waist  and  chafing  her 
wrists.  Cole's  prisoner  opened  her  eyes  slowly  and 
closed  them  again.  A  moan  escaped  her  bloodless 
lips. 

"Can  you  sit  up  now,  Nancy?"  asked  the  butler. 


NANCY  PRESTON  77 

She  struggled  to  an  elbow  and  looked  about  her. 
"Where's  my  Bubsy?"  she  asked  faintly.  "I  was 
dreaming  something  happened  to  him." 

"He's  all  right."  The  butler  helped  her  to  a  sit- 
ting position.. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked  and  then,  catch- 
ing sight  of  Cole,  she  remembered  and  turned  in  an 
appeal  to  the  mistress  of  the  house.  "He's  taking 
me  away  and  I  haven't  done  anything;  not  a  thing, 
ma'am.  Before  God,  I'm  a  clean  straight  woman. 
If  they  lock  me  up  what '11  happen  to  my  boy?" 

Under  her  fine  clothes  and  the  hardly  acquired 
polish  of  her  prosperous  days,  the  mother  instinct  in 
Mrs.  Burns  was  stirred.  She  turned  to  Cole.  "This 
girl  has  been  a  faithful  worker  and  is  honest  as  far  as 
I  know,"  she  said. 

"Maybe,"  agreed  Cole,  "but  she's  been  running 
with  an  old  burglar  and  the  two  of  them  might  have 
cleaned  out  the  house  any  time  if  we  hadn't  been 
watching  them." 

"I  can  hardly  believe  that." 

"It's  a  lie,  Mrs.  Burns,"  sobbed  Nancy. 

"And  she's  an  old  street- walker  besides.  They 
used  to  call  her  Straw  Nancy."  Cole  annihilated  any 
remote  chance  of  Nancy  getting  help  from  her  mis- 
tress. "See,  there's  some  of  the  yellow  dye  still  in  her 
hair.  Not  much,"  he  added,  "but  there's  enough  to 
show  you  why  she  got  that  name." 


78  NANCY  PRESTON 

"A  street- walker!"  The  mistress  of  the  house 
thought  of  her  two  girls.  ' '  Get  her  out  of  here ! ' ' 

"But  my  little  boy,  Mrs.  Burns,"  begged  Nancy, 
falling  to  her  knees. 

"We'll  attend  to  that,"  Cole  said,  picking  her  up 
and  half  carrying  her  to  the  stairs  leading  to  the 
basement.  "I'll  take  him  around  to  the  Gerry  So- 
ciety." One  of  his  hands  went  quickly  over  her  face 
to  stifle  the  scream  of  despair  this  news  would  cause. 
In  the  humble  walks  of  New  York  City  life,  where  the 
love-tie  is  powerful  between  mother  and  child,  strong 
through  all  vicissitudes  and  even  viciousness,  fear  of 
this  institution  is  greater  than  the  fear  of  death. 

Nancy  fought  like  a  tigress  for  her  whelp  until  once 
again  the  merciful  black  curtain  descended.  In  a 
taxi,  the  stolid,  efficient,  emotionless  operative  of 
James  Tierney,  Incorporated,  bolstered  the  senseless 
form  of  the  mother  in  a  corner  and  took  her  to  the 
police  station. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Burns  family  went  to  their  cottage  by  the 
•*•  sea  for  the  hot  July  and  August  weather,  all  ex- 
cept Danny,  who  put  off  his  vacation  until  the  splen- 
did villa  on  the  brink  of  the  Palisades  opposite  Dobbs 
Ferry  was  ready  for  its  owner,  who  was  eager  to  spend 
the  autumn  on  his  new  estate. 

The  rusty  Criminal  Courts  building  on  Centre 
street,  in  downtown  New  York,  was  practically  de- 
serted, save  for  the  idlers  in  the  pay  of  the  city  and 
county  subpo3na  servers,  coroners'  clerks,  janitors, 
slovenly  and  insolent  elevator  men,  a  handful  of  news- 
paper reporters  and  copy  boys  and  a  drifting  stream 
of  anxious  men  and  women  concerned  with  the  fate 
of  loved  ones  hopelessly  lost  in  overcrowded  dockets 
while  the  judges  were  away  resting.  The  broad  stairs 
and  dark  floors  of  the  cracked  and  seamed  temple  of 
justice  gathered  dirt  and  rubbish  and  the  evil  odor  of 
uncleanliness.  The  talk  in  the  corridors  was  of  politics 
of  assembly  district  and  precinct  caliber  and  of  small 
jobs.  The  eloquence  of  street  cleaners  and  sewer  men, 
of  rum-smelling  heelers  and  henchmen,  freighted  with 
filthy  words,  rose  high.  In  the  Tombs,  joined  to  the 
building  by  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  Brother  Michaelis  of 

79 


80  NANCY  PRESTON 

the  Convent  of  La  Trappe  was  kept  close  to  his  cell 
with  a  minimum  of  exercise  on  warning  from  Police 
Headquarters  that  he  was  "a  bad  actor."  Not  many 
blocks  away  Nancy  Preston  was  held  a  prisoner  in  the 
House  of  Detention,  a  place  especially  designed  for 
people  against  whom  the  Criminal  Statutes  might  not 
be  invoked  directly  but  whose  freedom  might  cause 
worry  to  those  engaged  in  preparing  prosecutions  for 
the  fall  term  of  court.  It  kept  the  bandage  over  the 
eyes  of  Justice  tilted  upward  just  a  little  on  one  side. 

A  little  further  uptown  and  still  east  of  Broadway, 
Bubs  was  a  prisoner  in  the  care  of  the  Children's  So- 
ciety pending  the  return  to  the  city  of  the  summer 
swallows.  Everybody  who  was  anybody  had  igone  to 
the  sea  or  the  mountains.  The  nobodies  fell  into  the 
lock-step  of  Manhattan  at  the  rush  hours  as  usual 
and  at  night  panted  and  sweated  at  open  windows  or 
on  fire  escapes.  Some  of  the  more  desperate,  down  in 
the  East  Side,  slept  on  the  sidewalks  after  midnight, 
their  young  offspring  stark  naked  beside  them. 

Nancy  cried  for  her  little  lad  until  her  heart  was 
left  dry  and  hard.  Then  she  sat  still  and  white  save 
when  a  sigh  too  deep  for  her  strength  of  body  and 
soul  threw  her  into  a  spell  of  trembling  and  set  her 
pretty  face  twitching. 

At  the  beginning  of  September  came  a  welcome  re- 
liet.  The  House  of  Detention  received  for  safe-keep- 
ing a  gorgeously  dressed  and  painted  female  of  care- 


NANCY  PRESTON  81 

fully  concealed  middle-age.  Her  remarks  were  fluent 
and  strong  as  she  prepared  to  make  herself  at  home 
for  the  time  of  her  stay.  Her  anger  worked  off,  she 
finally  undertook  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  her 
fellow  prisoners  and  even  went  further  by  inaugurat- 
ing an  afternoon  social  affair  with  a  greasy  deck  of 
cards,  the  game  being  "Rummy." 

"My  name's  Mazy  Lamont,"  she  announced. 
"Hazy  Mazy." 

Nancy  looked  up  and  studied  the  woman's  face. 

' '  They  've  got  me  wrong  as  usual, ' '  continued  Hazy 
Mazy.  "There  ain't  a  bird  in  this  little  town  playing 
in  worse  luck  than  me.  If  they'd  only  pinched  me  a 
week  ago  I'd  been  all  right.  I  had  the  money  then 
for  my  bondsman  but  I  was  clean  broke  when  this 
trouble  started." 

The  Rummy  game  was  not  yet  under  way.  Nancy 
left  her  chair  by  the  barred  window  and  went  to  the 
woman. 

"Do  you  remember  me?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  replied  Mazy  after  a  careful  scrutiny. 

"How's  Jennie?" 

"What  do  you  know  about  Jennie?"  demanded 
Mazy,  startled. 

"If  my  hair  was  yellow,  would  you  remember  me?" 

Mazy  studied  Nancy 's  blue  eyes.  ' '  You  ain  't  Straw 
Nancy  what  went  straight  ? ' '  she  asked. 

"Yes." 


82  NANCY  PRESTON 

"Oh,  my  God!"  The  tears  sprang  to  the  eyes  that 
had  been  so  brazenly  cold  and  Mazy 's  arms  went  about 
the  shoulders  of  the  broken  little  mother  of  Bubs. 

"You  poor  dear,  you  poor  dear,"  she  exclaimed  in 
her  sympathy.  "Tell  me  what's  the  matter."  They 
drew  aside  from  the  other  women. 

"I  must  get  a  bondsman,"  Nancy  told  her. 
"They've  taken  my  little  boy  to  the  Gerry  Society  and 
he's  not  strong.  They  might  give  him  all  the  medi- 
cine and  food  in  the  world  but  he's  never  been  out  of 
my  arms  a  night  since  he  was  born  and  his  little  heart 
will  be  broken." 

"Gee!"  cried  Mazy,  her  eyes  wide  with  wonder. 
"I  didn't  know  you  had  a  baby,  Nancy.  Where's 
your  man?" 

"Dead." 

"  Oh !    And  what  you  in  f  or  f  " 

"As  a  witness  against  a  friend,  a  good  friend,  the 
only  one  I've  got  on  earth." 

"And  they'll  put  it  to  you  if  you  don't  come  across 
against  him." 

"It's  my  little  one,  Mazy,  I'm  fighting  for.  I  must 
get  to  him.  I've  got  to  get  him  back.  You  have 
your  Jennie. ' ' 

Mazy  Lament's  colored  finger  tips  went  to  her  tem- 
ples under  the  bronze  puffs  of  hair  and  her  lips  trem- 
bled. "When  she  got  control  of  herself  she  sat  closer 
to  Nancy  in  their  corner  and  whispered:  "I  got  to 


NANCY  ^RESTON  83 

tell  you,  Nancy.  I  got  to  tell  somebody."  Nancy 
took  one  of  her  hands  and  held  it  tightly.  "My  Jen- 
nie's finished  boarding  school  and  has  met  a  young 
man.  I  ain't  seen  her  in  five  years  and  I'm  afraid 
to  go  near  her.  She  would  know,  Nancy.  She  would 
know  with  one  look  what  kind  of  a  mother  she's  got." 
Her  painted  cheeks  were  wet.  ' '  If  I  could  only  get  a 
good  look  at  her  and  touch  her  hand  maybe  or  hear 
her  say  something,  Nancy!  But  I'm  afraid.  All  I 
could  do  was  to  send  them  the  money  and  say  it  was 
from  an  aunt.  It  was  sending  her  all  I  had  for  the 
wedding  that  broke  me  and  got  me  in  here.  They're 
going  to  be  married  this  month,  before  I  get  out  of 
this  place.  I  was  thinking  I  might  go  to  the  church 
and  sneak  up  in  the  gallery  and  see  them.  It's  out 
in  the  country  a  few  miles.  She'll  have  a  fine  white 
veil  and  orange  blossoms.  I  sent  them  myself  with  a 
beautiful  organdie  dress  and  I  was  going  to  buy  the 
bonnet.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  God,  Nancy,  my  God,  Nancy  .  .  . 
me  a  poor  prostitute  buying  wedding  clothes!  Oh, 
Nancy,  if  I  could  only  see  her  just  once." 

"If  we  could  get  a  bondsman,"  suggested  Nancy. 
"There  was  Luther  Littsky.  What  became  of  him?" 

"Littsky?"  she  repeated  dully,  drying  her  eyes. 
" Littsky 's  a  rich  man,  made  it  in  girls;  arrested  a 
dozen  times  and  beat  'em  out  every  time  with  his 
money;  the  witnesses  weren't  locked  up  on  him  and 
they  got  theirs  and  beat  it." 


84  NANCY  PRESTON 

"If  I  could  get  word  to  him,"  Nancy  suggested. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember!"  cried  Mazy.  "That  little 
beast  always  liked  you  a  lot.  He  was  wild  when  he 
heard  you'd  gone  straight." 

"I've  got  to  go  to  my  boy,  Mazy.  Can  you  reach 
him?" 

"I  dunno;  maybe." 

"And  you  might  get  to  ...  to  ...  the  wedding." 


CHAPTER  XX 

DETECTIVE    headquarters    was    on    the    wire. 
Tierney  lost  no  time  in  clapping  the  receiver  of 
his  telephone  instrument  to  his  ear  and  Agnes  lifted 
her  fingers  from  the  board  of  her  typewriter. 

"You  say  Miska  put  up  the  bond  for  her?"  he 
asked  after  getting  the  message.  "Well,  ain't  he 
one  of  them  Broadway  gonophs?  Ain't  he  the  one 
who  runs  the  art  and  antique  shop?  Sure  I  know 
him.  .  .  .  Sure  I  know  he's  got  money.  .  .  .  Put  up 
a  real  estate  bond,  did  he?"  He  paused  to  wipe  the 
perspiration  from  his  forehead,  hitching  himself  with 
his  elbow  closer  and  closer  to  his  desk,  fearful  of  losing 
a  word.  When  headquarters  gave  him  a  chance  to 
break  in  again  he  was  purple  with  rage.  "Well,  I'll 
just  spill  you  somethin',"  he  all  but  screamed  into  the 
instrument,  "Straw  Nancy  will  beat  it  unless  you 
keep  that  kid  of  hers  tied  up  safe  somewhere !  What  ? 
They  let  her  have  him?  Good  night  and  thanks  for 
the  lobster!"  He  dropped  the  receiver  in  place  and 
swung  about  in  his  chair.  Agnes 's  fingers  began 
flying  over  the  keys.  "Cut  out  the  tick-tacks,"  he 
snapped.  "Is  Cole  outside?  Send  kim  in  and  beat 
it  for  your  lunch. ' ' 

86 


86  NANCY  PRESTON 

"Lookit!"  Tierney  began  as  Gloomy  slid  into  a 
chair.  "Straw  Nancy  is  out  and  has  her  kid. 
There's  money  back  of  her.  You  know  Miska,  who 
sells  fresh  antiques  on  Broadway  ? ' '  Gloomy  nodded. 
"Is  he  banking  for  any  burglars  just  now?" 

"No.    But  his  partner,  Luther  Littsky,  might  be." 

"Oh,  Luther  is  his  partner,  is  he?  Lemme  see, 
lemme  see."  He  stared  out  the  window  for  a  igood 
three  minutes.  ' '  Say,  maybe  Nancy  sold  out  to  him, ' ' 
he  muttered.  ' '  With  rings  and  stuff  on  her  and  those 
blue  eyes  she'd  look  all  right  to  Littsky.  I'll  say 
she  would."  He  mulled  this  theory  as  Gloomy  sat 
staring  at  the  floor.  "Say,"  he  began  aloud.  "She 
was  straight  a  long  time.  If  she's  selling  out  to  help 
Horgan  she  must  have  fell  in  love  with  him.  And 
it's  some  price  for  a  woman  to  pay,  although  they'll 
pay  it  if  it's  the  last  card." 

"Maybe,  it's  her  kid  she's  paying  for,"  suggested 
Gloomy  without  lifting  his  eyes. 

"Huh."  They  were  silent  for  several  moments. 
"She  fought  like  a  hell  cat  when  I  told  her  I'd  take 
him  to  the  Gerry  Society,"  reminded  Tierney 's  aide. 
"And  all  night  she  screamed  and  yelled  in  the  sta- 
tion cell." 

"Well,"  decided  Tierney,  "we  ain't  aiming  to  put 
her  away  anyhow.  It's  Mike  Horgan  we're  after." 

"And  I  (guess  we've  got  him  good  and  tight," 
added  Cole. 


NANCY  PRESTON  87 

"Is  that  feller  Hindman  what  saw  him  change  the 
address  on  the  box  of  stuff  in  the  shipping  room  stick- 
ing to  his  story?" 

"Sure." 

"And  the  driver  of  the  wagon  can  swear  Mike  put 
that  box  on  himself  ? ' ' 

"Sure." 

"And  you  got  the  witness  to  prove  he  lit  out  the 
minute  Vegas  and  Murphy  showed  up?" 

"I  got  a  dozen  of  'em." 

' '  Then  I  guess  we  can  go  to  the  bat  with  this  case. 
We  don't  want  any  adjournments,  y 'understand. 
Have  everybody  in  court  in  plenty  of  time." 

"They'll  all  be  there." 

"Has  Mike  got  a  lawyer?" 

Gloomy  shook  his  head. 

"I  wonder  if  the  guy  at  the  other  end  of  that  rob- 
bery sold  him  out?"  Tierney  pondered  this  possi- 
bility. That  sort  of  thing  seldom  happened.  Crooks 
always  stuck  together  to  the  last  ditch.  Then  his  pale 
eyes  twinkled.  "Gloomy,"  he  laughed,  "I  got  a 
right  to  that  name  Bonehead.  There  '11  be  a  lawyer  in 
court  for  Horgan.  Just  watch.  We  got  Nancy  so 
quick  she  didn't  get  a  chance  to  pass  along  the  word 
to  the  right  party  with  the  bank  roll.  But  she  man- 
aged it  from  the  House  of  Detention.  He'll  have  a 
lawyer  all  right.  Littsky  is  the  man  with  the  bundle 
for  this  bunch  of  crooks.  You  just  stick  around  and 


88  NANCY  PRESTON 

watc~  him  from  now  on.  He  hangs  out  in  the  lobby 
of  that  hotel  where  the  wiretappers  stop,  right  in  the 
center  of  the  bright  lights.  You  can  tell  him  by 
his  lean  black  jaw.  He's  got  a  beard  that  takes  three 
barbers  to  shave  off  every  morning  and  eyebrows  so 
black  and  strong  you  could  use  the  hair  for  needles. 
He  dresses  in  the  latest  style  and  his  hands  and  feet 
are  pretty  like  a  woman 's.  The  bulls  at  headquarters 
all  know  him  and  all  the  girls  know  him." 

"I  never  was  in  on  any  white  slave  case,"  Cole  ex- 
plained with  a  hint  of  apology  for  his  ignorance. 
"But  I  can  pick  him  up." 

"Go  to  it." 

With  Gloomy 's  departure,  Tierney  fell  to  dreaming 
out  of  the  window  again.  ' '  I  'm  sure  a  Bonehead, ' '  he 
laughed.  "I  should  have  let  Straw  Nancy  stay  right 
where  she  was  and  put  Agnes  in  the  house  to  watch 
her.  Then  we  might  have  landed  the  whole  bunch. 
But  it  does  seem  funny  that  Littsky  is  gone  in  with 
the  yeggs.  That  ain't  his  line.  I  wonder  if  he's 
after  Nancy.  I  wonder  if  he  wants  her  bad  enough 
to  get  real  estate  put  up  for  her." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

LUTHER  LITTSKY'S  money  was  as  good  in  New 
York  City  as  the  money  of  Trinity  Church  Cor- 
poration. It  opened  the  door  of  the  House  of  Deten- 
tion for  Nancy  and  Hazy  Mazy  Lament  and  did  it  in 
a  perfectly  legitimate  way.  It  also  took  Bubs  from 
the  care  of  the  Gerry  Society  and  furnished  him  and 
his  mother  a  shelter  in  one  of  the  many  rooming 
houses  in  the  Fifties  west  of  Broadway,  where  sinners 
occasionally  rub  elbows  with  a  stray  saint  to  the  help 
of  the  latter 's  understanding.  It  aided  in  a  miracle 
as  blessed  as  that  which  turned  another  woman  from 
the  highway  to  become  a  companion  of  the  Mother  of 
the  founder  of  Christianity,  in  that  it  bought  a  cake 
of  soap  for  Miss  Lament.  Layers  of  paint  were 
scrubbed  from  her  face  and  much  charcoal  washed 
from  her  lashes.  Her  gaudy  clothes  and  pin-heel 
shoes  were  laid  aside.  From  the  corner  of  the  gal- 
lery in  a  little  church  not  many  miles  from  Forty- 
second  street,  she  saw  her  daughter  radiantly  happy 
in  the  white  organdie  dress  and  from  an  upper  win- 
dow watched  her  schoolmates  shower  her  and  her  hus- 
band with  rice  as  they  drove  away.  Then  she  re- 
turned to  New  York  to  share  Nancy's  room. 

89 


90  NANCY  PRESTON 

"I  can't  tell  you  about  it  for  a  week,  Nancy.  I'd 
holler  so  the  landlady  would  throw  us  out."  Mazy 
drew  Bubs  to  her  lap.  "But  I'm  done.  I'm  goin' 
out  after  a  job  and  be  respectable."  For  a  moment 
she  studied  her  reflection  in  the  warped  bureau  mirror. 
"God!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  didn't  know  I  was  getting 
as  old  as  that. ' '  Then  she  studied  Nancy 's  face  for  a 
moment  and  sighed.  "Look  it,  Nancy,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "You're  as  pretty  as  a  picture!  There's 
something  in  your  eyes  never  was  there  in  the  old 
days.  I  guess  it  was  having  Bubs  to  love,  having  him 
close  to  you  all  the  time." 

A  knock  at  the  door  ended  her  conjecture.  Against 
the  gloom  of  the  hall  the  figure  of  Luther  Littsky 
appeared,  slick  as  a  model  for  a  Fifth  avenue  tailor. 
It  was  late  afternoon  and  the  reflected  light  in  the 
room  from  the  white-painted  airshaft  cast  no  shadows. 

"Well?"  he  asked  in  a  slight  accent.  "May  I  come 
in?"  His  black  eyes,  under  heavy  eyebrows,  danced 
and  his  dark  lips  smiled.  Mazy  jumped  from  her 
chair  and  offered  it  to  him,  taking  Bubs  to  the  bed, 
where  she  perched  with  him  on  her  knees. 

"Take  the  kid  for  a  little  walk,"  he  suggested. 
"I  want  to  talk  with  Nancy  for  a  few  moments." 
When  the  door  closed  behind  them,  he  bade  Nancy  be 
seated  and  himself  sat  facing  her.  Breathless,  she 
waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"You've had  a  tough  time,  haven't  you?"  he  asked, 


NANCY  PRESTON  91 

leaning  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  silk- 
gloved  hands  lightly  clasped.  She  nodded.  "What 
are  you  going  to  do  when  this  case  is  over?" 

"I  think  I  can  get  a  job."  She  felt  it  useless  to 
say  this,  for  the  fire  in  his  eyes  warned  her  that  the 
strange  passion  he  had  felt  for  her  years  before  was 
there  within  him  still. 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is  that  makes  me  want  you 
so,  Nancy, ' '  he  began  a  little  excitedly,  brushing  aside 
her  answer  as  unworthy  of  comment.  "But  I  want 
you  and  have  always  wanted  you.  It  ain't  your  looks, 
because  I  had  a  prettier  girl  when  I  first  saw  you. 
You're  smart  enough  but  it  ain't  that.  The  other  girl 
was  plenty  smart.  She  rolled  me  for  eight  thousand 
before  she  left  the  key  of  the  flat  with  the  janitor. 
What's  it,  Nancy?"  He  reached  a  hand  to  her  lap 
but  she  moved  her  chair  back.  "I  don't  know,"  she 
said  simply. 

"Then  suddenly  you  get  married  and  go  straight 
and  work  hard  and  have  a  baby  and  ..."  He  stood 
up  and  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "I'll  tell 
you,  Nancy,  why  it  is  I  want  you.  You're  a  ,game 
one.  There  ain't  any  gamer.  And  another  thing, 
you're  something  I  ain't.  You're  honest.  And 
you're  decent." 

"What  did  it  cost  you  to  get  the  bond  for  me?" 
she  asked. 

"That  doesn't  matter." 


92  NANCY  PRESTON 

"I'll  pay  it  back.  I 'm  going  to  work.  I'm  a  good 
washwoman. ' ' 

"A  washwoman!"  He  laughed  until  the  moisture 
came  to  his  black-rimmed  eyes. 

"I  made  a  living  at  it  after  my  husband  died." 

"You  worked  at  a  washtub?" 

"Yes." 

"You  with  those  eyes  and  that  soft  sweet  skin  that 
don't  need  any  more  paint  than  a  baby's  needs? 
Why,  you  ain't  any  fool,  Nancy.  You  know  the  game 
of  life.  You  know  it  don't  pay  to  be  honest,  not  in 
this  little  old  town. ' ' 

"I  have  a  son  to  think  of. ' '  Her  shoulders  straight- 
ened back  and  joy  and  pride  shone  in  her  eyes.  He 
marveled  at  her.  She  looked  the  clean  and  good 
woman  that  she  was,  whatever  she  might  have  been. 

"And  you're  going  to  try  to  fight  it  out  without  a 
friend? "he  asked. 

"I  have  a  friend." 

"A  gentleman?"    He  sat  down  again. 

"He  is  a  gentleman." 

"Maybe  he  didn't  know  they  had  you  locked  up," 
he  suggested. 

"He  did  know  but  he  couldn't  help  me.  He  is  in 
trouble." 

"Oh,  a  gentleman  crook,  eh?" 

"He's  no  crook  but  he's  in  the  Tombs." 

"Oh.    It's  this  fellow  Mike  Horgan.    Sit  down, 


NANCY  PRESTON  93 

Nancy,  won't  you?  Tell  me  who  this  fellow  Horgan 
is.  I  been  trying  to  find  out  ever  since  I  learned 
you  was  a  witness  of  his." 

' '  He  was  a  friend  of  my  husband. ' ' 

"A  burglar?" 

Her  brows  knitted  as  she  thought  how  to  answer 
this.  "All  I  know  is  that  Bill  brought  him  home  one 
day  before  we  were  married  and  he  liked  me  and  we 
both  liked  him.  He  'd  just  come  out  of  prison,  a  short 
term,  and  had  written  a  book  about  it.  He  didn't 
seem  to  worry  about  being  an  ex-convict.  Then  he 
was  arrested  and  he  got  another  term,  although  he 
wasn't  in  on  the  job.  He  could  have  cleared  himself 
but  the  guilty  man  had  four  children.  He  took  the 
blame  and  laughed  and  said  he  had  to  write  another 
book.  We  all  thought  him  a  little  off  in  the  head. 
He  might  be.  But  he  made  Bill  and  me  the  happiest 
two  people  in  the  world.  We  never  met  anybody 
like  him  before,  always  thinking  of  himself  last  and 
always  getting  happiness  out  of  seeing  other  people 
happy." 

"He's  a  nut,  I  guess."  Littsky  had  watched  her 
face  closely  all  the  time  she  talked  and  he  had  not 
failed  to  see  the  roses  creep  timidly  to  her  cheeks  in 
the  gray  light  of  the  room.  Nor  did  the  added  bright- 
ness of  her  eyes  go  unheeded. 

"You  love  this  fellow?"  he  asked.  She  did  not 
answer  him. 


94  NANCY  PRESTON 

"You  want  me  to  get  a  lawyer  for  him?" 

"Oh,  if  you  will  only  help  us!"  she  cried.  "He 
...  he.  ..."  She  could  not  go  on. 

"Sure  I'll  get  a  lawyer  for  him,  Nancy.  I'll  do  it 
right  now." 

"I'll  work  my  hands  to  the  bone  for  you." 

He  left  her  wondering  what  had  come  over  him, 
wondering  if  Michael's  theory  that  there  was  gold 
down  in  the  heart  of  the  poorest,  meanest,  most  be- 
nighted of  humanity  was  true,  left  her  almost  ready 
to  sing  his  praises  and  he  took  a  taxi  to  the  office  of  Al- 
bert S.  Alberstein,  a  lawyer  as  well  known  in  the 
underworld  as  he  was  himself. 

Rosy-cheeked,  round-bellied,  bediamonded,  Alber- 
stein greeted  his  client  vociferously. 

"I  want  you  to  defend  a  guy  named  Mike  Horgan," 
Littsky  informed  him  when  the  door  was  closed. 

"With  pleasure  and  all  the  resources  of  the  firm," 
the  lawyer  assured  him. 

"He's  a  burglar  and  broke.  He's  a  friend  of  a 
girl  friend  of  mine." 

"Ah." 

"I'm  putting  up  for  the  girl,  get  me?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Here's  five  hundred."  Littsky  peeled  off  five  one 
hundred  dollar  certificates  from  a  heavy  roll.  ' '  I  was 
afraid  the  court  might  assign  a  lawyer  to  defend 
him,  one  with  brains." 


NANCY  PRESTON  95 

"Oh!" 

"And  he  might  get  off.    I  want  him  put  in." 

Alberstein  squeezed  the  money  into  a  waistcoat 
pocket.  "Of  course,  if  he  really  is  a  burglar,"  he 
said  with  a  smile,  ' '  a  conscientious  practitioner  should 
not  help  to  turn  him  loose  on  the  public.  I  ask  you, 
should  he?" 

Littsky's  eyes  snapped.  "Put  him  in  the  chair  if 
you  can,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  he  laughed. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IT  was  the  witness  Hindmau  who  landed  heaviest 
for  the  prosecution  in  the  case  of  the  People 
against  Michael  Horgan.  His  story  was  brief  but 
every  word  of  it  hit  hard.  He  swore  that  he  saw 
the  defendant  scrape  away  the  address  on  a  box  of 
goods  and  with  brush  and  paint  box  substitute  an- 
other. He  was  employed  in  the  packing  department 
and  had  himself  packed  this  box,  was  sure  of  it  being 
the  one  he  had  handled.  Horgan,  he  testified,  stood 
so  that  he  could  not  see  the  new  address  when  he  dis- 
covered him  nearby.  The  prisoner  then  loaded  the 
box  in  an  express  wagon,  face  down,  so  that  the  change 
would  not  be  noticed. 

Michael,  seated  beside  his  counsel,  Alberstein, 
leaned  over  and  whispered:  "That  man  is  the  thief. 
His  story  is  a  lie." 

Alberstein  smiled  and  nodded  to  his  client. 

It  was  a  case  of  no  importance  and  the  court 
benches  were  empty,  save  for  Nancy  and  Mazy,  Tier- 
ney  and  Gloomy  Cole,  Littsky  and  the  witnesses  who 
would  swear  that  they  had  seen  Michael  just  before 
the  detectives,  Murphy  and  Vegas,  arrived  and  missed 
him  immediately  afterward.  The  paymaster  was  also 

96 


NANCY  PRESTON  97 

there  to  testify  that  the  prisoner  had  not  asked  for  his 
wages  before  leaving  and  the  foreman  of  the  shipping 
department  to  testify  that  Horgan  had  given  him  no 
notice  that  he  was  quitting  the  job.  Daniel  Burns, 
the  contractor,  and  a  number  of  his  workmen  were  also 
in  the  Tierney  bench  close  to  the  rail  as  witnesses  to 
the  fact  that  the  prisoner  had  fought  his  captors. 

Behind  the  judge's  dais,  a  tall  painting  of  Justice 
holding  aloft  the  scales  with  one  hand,  a  crystal  sphere 
in  the  other,  made  a  background  for  His  Honor  who 
sleepily  scribbled  with  pen  and  ink  on  a  sheet  of 
paper,  his  jowls  falling  over  his  collar,  his  stertorous 
breath  stirring  a  fulsome  mustache.  Behind  the  ele- 
vated witness  chair  where  Hindman  sat  and  covered 
his  work  with  perjury  was  a  panel  in  oils  of  three 
female  figures,  the  Fates,  and  behind  the  desk  of  the 
court  clerk  on  the  other  side  of  the  dais  a  picture  of 
three  male  figures  seated  on  a  marble  slab,  represent- 
ing Liberty,  Equality  and  Fraternity.  The  jurors 
presented  from  their  box  twelve  vacuous  faces.  Al- 
though the  fall  session  of  the  court  had  been  in  prog- 
ress hardly  two  weeks  the  room  already  smelled  of 
unclean  humanity. 

Tierney  squeezed  into  the  witness  chair  when  Hind- 
man  had  finished  covering  himself  and  his  associates 
in  thievery.  He  testified,  under  the  guidance  of  the 
assistant  district  attorney,  that  he  was  a  private  de- 
tective and  that  the  jewelry  manufacturers  that  had 


98  NANCY  PRESTON 

been  robbed  were  among  his  clients.  "I'm  paid  to 
keep  track  of  professional  crooks,"  he  swore,  "and 
had  a  man  ready  to  shadow  the  defendant  the  day  he 
left  Sing  Sing  after  his  second  term." 

"Just  a  moment,"  ordered  the  Justice,  looking  to- 
ward counsel  for  the  defense.  Alberstein  was  busy 
making  notes. 

"If  the  counsel  for  the  prisoner  does  not  make  ob- 
jection I  shall  order  that  part  of  the  witness's  testi- 
mony stricken  from  the  record.  It  is  not  competent 
testimony  in  this  case.  The  prisoner  is  being  tried  for 
the  crime  specified  in  the  indictment  and  is  not  being 
retried  on  some  other  case." 

"I  thank  your  Honor,"  said  Littsky's  lawyer. 
Tierney  smiled.  They  could  strike  it  out  of  the  rec- 
ord but  the  jurors  had  been  igiven  the  information 
that  Horgan  was  a  two-term  man. 

Tierney  told  of  his  efforts  to  find  the  man  who  had 
robbed  his  clients,  his  translation  of  the  newspaper 
code  message  to  a  woman  who  had  been  known  as 
"Straw"  Nancy  in  the  Tenderloin,  his  discovery  of 
her  and  finally  the  arrest  after  a  bitter  fight  in  which 
he  was  shot  in  the  face. 

The  other  witnesses  followed,  clinching  the  case, 
and  adjournment  was  taken  for  lunch. 

After  an  hour  and  fifteen  minutes  in  the  neigh- 
boring restaurants  of  Franklin,  Centre  and  Lafayette 
streets,  judge  and  jury  reentered  the  courtroom.  The 


NANCY  PRESTON  99 

first  tingle  of  winter  was  in  the  air  outside  but  within 
the  towering  red  Criminal  Courts  building  a  full  head 
of  steam  heat  was  on.  With  their  stomachs  well 
lined,  in  this  oppressive  atmosphere,  the  voices  of  the 
counsel  for  the  defense  and  the  district  attorney 
sounded  to  the  jurors  in  a  gradually  diminishing  hum. 
The  black-robed  fat  man  under  the  scales  of  justice 
nodded,  fighting  off  the  attacking  somnolence  occa- 
sionally by  frantically  scribbling  curlicues  on  his  pad. 

Suddenly  a  uniformed  court  attendant  shrieked: 
" Nancy  Preston."  Another  at  the  corridor  door 
screamed  the  name  and  the  jurors  shuffled  their  feet 
and  surreptitiously  rubbed  their  eyes.  His  Honor 
cleared  his  throat  and  was  on  the  verge  of  another 
cat-nap  when  the  witness  appeared  at  his  left,  her  hand 
on  a  greasy  Bible  held  together  witE  a  dirty  rubber 
band.  As  the  clerk  rumbled  out  the  Oath,  His  Honor 
saw,  as  through  a  gray  veil,  two  patches  of  blue  as  fair 
as  the  blue  of  a  Maytime  sky.  They  roused  his  mind. 
The  young  woman  was  clad  in  black,  a  pale  blue  jabot 
relieving  the  somberness,  a  blue  flower  tucked  under 
the  brim  of  a  black,  untrimmed  velvet  hat  hinting  of 
a  period  of  mourning  that  had  passed.  Her  brown 
hair  was  heavy  about  her  ears,  the  one  hint  of  dye 
being  hidden.  Her  face  was  pale  but  the  pallor  did 
not  detract  from  its  sweetness. 

Nancy's  little  cotton-gloved  hands  hung  limply 
over  the  arm  of  the  chair.  A  beam  of  the  lowering 


100  NANCY  PRESTON 

afternoon  sun,  striking  through  a  window  back  of  the 
jury  box,  illumined  her  form.  She  looked  straight 
at  Michael,  beside  Littsky's  lawyer,  and  smiled. 
There  was  so  much  of  hope  and  love  in  the  expression 
which  crossed  her  features  that  Littsky's  eyes  blazed 
with  bitter  anger.  Michael  watched  her  closely,  color 
coming  to  his  lean,  dark  countenance.  He  had  ad- 
vised against  her  taking  the  stand.  Alberstein,  mind- 
ful of  earning  the  Judas  money  given  him,  had  in- 
sisted that  she  testify. 

"You  may  tell  all  you  know  about  this  case,  Mrs. 
Preston,"  said  the  lawyer,  half  rising  in  his  chair. 

"I  know  he  didn't  steal  anything  or  have  anything 
to  do  with  stealing,"  she  began,  talking  straight  to 
the  justice. 

"Tell  your  story  to  the  jury,"  His  Honor  bade  her. 
She  turned  in  her  chair  and  continued.  "He  was  a 
friend  of  my  dead  husband.  He  came  to  board  with 
me  and  help  me  and  my  little  boy.  He  never  went 
anywhere  except  to  work.  He  spent  all  his  money 
on  us  because  he  loved  my  little  boy  so  and  my  boy 
loved  him  so.  Bubs  called  him  Uncle  Michael.  We 
were  very  happy.  If  he  had  been  a  thief  I  would 
have  known  about  it."  She  paused  and  cast  down 
her  eyes. 

"Well?"  urged  Alberstein. 

"I  know  thieves,"  she  confessed.  Littsky's  money 
was  earned  by  his  man  of  law.  Her  whole  past  lay 


NANCY  PRESTON  101 

open  to  cross-examination.  "When  I  was  a  girl,"  she 
continued,  "I  had  a  hard  time.  My  father  was  a 
drunkard  and  my  mother  died  when  I  was  ten  years 
old.  I  went  to  the  public  school  for  two  years  and 
learned  all  about  the  street.  Some  of  the  children, 
a  lot  of  them,  had  vile  diseases.  Lots  of  the  girls 
couldn't  be  anything  but  bad.  When  I  went  to  work 
and  was  ill  and  then  lost  my  job  I  couldn't  pay  my 
room  rent.  I  was  nearly  starved.  There  was  a  girl 
with  yellow  hair  and  blue  eyes  and  she  always  had 
plenty  of  money.  I  ...  I  ...  dyed  my  hair  and 
went  with  her.  I  didn't  know  it  was  very  bad.  The 
man  I  met  was  kind.  He  wasn't  to  blame."  Her 
little  gloved  hands  went  to  her  face.  An  attendant 
offered  her  a  glass  of  water.  She  found  her  hand- 
kerchief and  dried  her  tears.  "Then  I  met  my  hus- 
band and  Michael  came  along, ' '  she  continued.  ' '  We 
didn't  know  much  about  right  and  wrong  but  we 
learned  from  him  somehow.  He  never  preached  at  us. 
He  was  just  kind  and  gentle.  So  we  got  married 
and  the  baby  came  and  we  were  happy  for  a  long  time. 
Michael  gave  us  all  that  and  we  loved  him  for  it." 

The  prisoner's  eyes  shone.  The  simple  narrative 
was  indeed  a  tribute  worth  cherishing. 

"You  may  take  her  for  cross-examination,"  Alber- 
stein  informed  the  assistant  district  attorney.  Tier- 
ney  entered  the  gate  in  the  rail  and  drew  a  chair  be< 
side  the  prosecuting  officer,  opening  a  note  book  as  he 


102  NANCY  PRESTON 

did  so  and  giving  it  to  him.  He  was  all  prepared  for 
that  one  hoped-for  "slip"  on  the  part  of  counsel  for 
the  defense.  The  assistant  district  attorney  studied 
the  notes  carefully  and  then  rose  and  faced  the  wit- 
ness. 

"You  are  a  widow,  Mrs.  Preston?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Of  what  did  your  husband  die?" 

Michael  flashed  Nancy  a  look  that  told  her  to  stick  it 
through. 

"A  wound,"  she  replied,  clasping  her  hands  tightly. 

"By  whom  inflicted?" 

"I  was  not  there." 

"If  the  court  pleases,  I  shall  enter  the  record  of 
William  Preston's  death  as  exhibit  A." 

The  court  glanced  at  it  and  allowed  it  to  be  read 
to  the  jury,  the  cold,  stark  narrative  of  a  burglar 
killed  on  a  job. 

"Were  you  ever  known  by  any  other  name  than 
Nancy  Preston?"  the  assistant  district  attorney  asked. 

"None  except  my  maiden  name,"  the  witness  re- 
plied. 

"When  you  were  a  street  walker  were  you  not 
known  as  'Straw'  Nancy?" 

"I  couldn't  help  that."  A  sob  escaped  her  as  the 
alias,  one  of  the  meanest  and  cheapest  of  police  blights, 
was  applied  to  her. 

"I  will  ask  if  you  recognize  this  bit  of  paper." 


NANCY  PRESTON  103 

She  was  handed  the  note  of  warning  she  had  sent  Mi- 
chael the  day  of  his  arrest. 

"I  wrote  it,"  she  admitted. 

"Telling  him  to  beat  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Aiding  him  to  escape  if  you  could?" 

"Ah,  I  had  to  help  him.  He  was  innocent."  She 
could  not  stand  any  more  of  the  grilling.  The  fight 
in  her  was  gone. 

"I  hardly  think  it  is  necessary  to  go  further  with 
this  witness,"  suggested  the  court.  "She  admits  that 
she  was  the  wife  of  a  burglar  and  had  been  a  street 
walker.  She  admits  trying  to  warn  the  defendant." 

"You  may  stand  aside."  The  district  attorney's 
representative,  following  the  ancient  custom  of  his 
office,  had  brought  out  everything  harmful  that  he 
could  against  the  woman  and  the  prisoner.  The  jury 
was  given  no  single  word  of  the  seven  and  more  years 
of  uphill  struggle,  of  a  crooked  path  laid  enticingly 
before  a  hungry  and  shelterless  child  having  been 
straightened  out  without  help  from  society,  of  her 
duty  well  done  as  a  mother  and  wife,  of  her  time  at 
the  washtubs.  She  stepped  down  from  the  witness 
stand  as  merely  Nancy  Preston,  alias  ' '  Straw ' '  Nancy. 

Short  as  were  the  arguments  and  instructions  to 
the  jury  they  sounded  to  the  jurors  as  the  distant 
buzzing  of  bees  on  a  hot  summer's  day.  The  twelve 
good  men  and  true  dragged  themselves  from  their 


104  NANCY  PRESTON 

chairs,  retired,  and  in  a  few  moments  returned  with 
the  verdict  of  guilty. 

Michael  was  remanded  to  the  Tombs  to  appear  again 
before  the  judge  to  be  sentenced  the  following  week. 
The  prison  guards  gave  him  a  moment  with  Nancy. 

"Kiss  Bubs  for  me,"  he  said.  "Don't  give  up, 
Nancy.  He 's  worth  all  the  fight  you  can  make. ' '  In 
her  weakness  and  despair  she  laid  her  head  against 
his  shoulder  and  he  whispered:  "As  soon  as  they 
stop  hounding  you,  let  me  know  where  you  are." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ACCOMPANIED  by  James  Tierney,  the  assistant 
district  attorney  in  charge  of  the  case  of  the 
People  against  Michael  Horgan  entered  the  chambers 
of  the  trial  justice  on  the  day  set  for  sentencing  the 
convicted  man. 

"Here  are  the  records  in  the  Horgan  case,  Your 
Honor, ' '  said  the  prosecutor.  ' '  Mr.  Tierney  has  some 
data  additional  to  that  collected  by  the  police." 

"Let  me  have  it,  Mr.  Tierney."  The  judge  put' 
aside  the  volume  entitled  "The  Prisoner  at  the  Bar" 
and  turned  to  the  private  detective.  His  eyes  were 
vague  and  the  lids  droopy  as  Tierney  took  a  chair  be- 
side his  desk.  The  sun  poured  through  a  deep  win- 
dow to  his  heavy  shoulders. 

"This  feller  Horgan,"  began  Tierney,  "has  got  a 
lot  of  brains.  Most  crooks  don't  use  their  brains  if 
they  have  any  worth  mentioning." 

"Really."  A  ghost  of  a  smile  flitted  across  the  fat 
features  of  His  Honor. 

"That's  right,"  Tierney  assured  him. 

"Perhaps  you  mean  that  the  crooks  that  are  caught 
are  a  bit  deficient  in  intellect,"  the  judge  suggested. 
He  seemed  ready  for  deep  slumber,  merely  a  little 

105 


106  NANCY  PRESTON 

slit  of  light  showing  under  the  heavy  curtains  of  his 
eyes.  Tierney's  fat  hands  rubbed  his  knees  as  he 
thought  this  over  and  through  his  lowered  lids  the 
judge  watched  the  eager  play  of  the  ten  fingers. 

"Of  course,"  admitted  Bonehead,  "there's  an  awful 
lot  of  people  on  the  outside  lookin'  in  that  ought  to  be 
on  the  inside  lookin'  out.  But  if  everybody  was  con- 
victed for  what  he'd  done  against  the  law  there 
mightn't  be  enough  people  left  to  make  up  a  jury 
panel."  He  turned  to  the  assistant  district  attorney 
as  if  for  verification  of  his  theory. 

"I'll  not  need  you,  Mr.  District  Attorney,"  drawled 
the  judge.  "I  know  that  you  are  pretty  busy.  You 
may  leave  Mr.  Tierney,  or  did  you  say  his  name  was 
Kearney?  I  would  like  to  hear  what  he  has  to  say 
about  Michael  Horgan."  Tierney's  fingers  came  to- 
gether on  his  knees.  This  judge  was  the  limit,  he 
thought.  Why,  he  couldn't  keep  awake  long  enough 
to  get  a  man's  name  right. 

' '  You  were  saying,  I  believe, ' '  mumbled  His  Honor, 
as  the  prosecuting  officer  withdrew,  "that  it  would  be 
hard  to  get  juries  if  all  the  guilty  ones  of  humanity 
were  locked  up." 

"Well,  your  honor,"  Tierney  replied  hesitatingly, 
"I  was  thinking  of  the  law's  maxim  that  it  is  better 
to  let  ninety-nine  guilty  escape  than  one  innocent  man 
suffer  unjustly." 

"Mr.  Kerney  ...  I  beg  your  pardon.  Have  I  the 
name  right?" 


NANCY  PRESTON  107 

"Tierney  is  my  name.    James  Tierney." 

"Ah!  Mr.  Tierney,  if  you  really  believe  that  the 
ninety  and  nine  escape  punishment  by  the  law  for 
their  evil  conduct  that  in  itself  would  justify  the  ex- 
istence of  so  many  private  detective  firms,  would  it 
not?"  Tierney,  not  knowing  what  this  conversation 
was  leading  to,  smoothed  his  palms  one  against  the 
other. 

"Mebbe  so,"  he  said. 

"Of  course,  the  greater  number  of  convictions  se- 
cured by  a  private  investigating  firm  the  more  clients 
and  the  greater  profit,"  the  judge  said  slowly.  "It 
is  a  parallel  to  the  police  system  of  promotion.  A  de- 
tective who  puts  it  over  on  every  case  becomes  a  lieu- 
tenant, then  a  captain  and  then  an  inspector.  It  is  a 
splendid  system.  Merit  is  rewarded.  Reward  is  the 
chief  objective?"  Tierney  didn't  like  that  comment, 
and  his  fists  doubled.  "May  I  ask  why  you  double 
your  fists  ? ' '  the  judge  requested,  looking  up  into  Bone- 
head 's  eyes.  "Are  you  angry?" 

"I  came  in  here  with  the  additional  stuff  on  this 
burglar  Horgan,"  blurted  Tierney.  "If  you  want  it, 
I  '11  give  it  to  you,  Your  Honor. ' ' 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  it." 

"If  a  man  steals  twenty  dollars,  Your  Honor," 
Tierney  began,  "and  the  police  get  the  goods  on  him 
he  is  tried  and  sent  to  jail  so  quick  that  he  finishes 
his  sentence  before  the  man  who  steals  a  thousand  dol- 
lars gets  indicted  by  the  grand  jury.  If  he  steals  a 


108  NANCY  PRESTON 

million  he  might  be  tried  but  he'll  be  acquitted.  If 
he  steals  two  million  a  subscription  is  taken  up  and 
a  monument  is  built  for  him."  The  judge  smiled 
broadly.  "Ain't  it  so?"  continued  Tierney.  "All 
the  world  knows  about  the  case  of  the  young  Pitts- 
burgh millionaire  and  his  trials  for  murder.  There 
were  reporters  at  that  trial  from  every  great  city  in 
the  world,  with  telegraph  and  cable  wires  stretched 
down  from  the  skylight  to  the  floor  of  the  court  room. 
Especially  in  England,  the  people  watched  the  test 
of  Money  against  Justice.  The  first  trial  lasted  three 
months.  Did  his  money  put  the  law  on  the  bum? 
Ill  say  it  did.  And  there  was  the  case  of  the  down- 
town banker  who  was  convicted  of  rocking  the  boat 
and  starting  that  big  panic  in  nineteen  hundred  and 
seven.  He  was  sent  to  Atlanta  prison.  But  did  he 
serve  his  term?  He  did  not.  He  said  he  was  too  sick 
to  serve  it  and  he  got  a  pardon.  Then,  after  a  few 
golf  games  he  goes  right  back  to  the  same  old  job  of 
trimming  the  Wall  street  push." 

Tierney  paused  in  his  dissertation,  but  seeing  that 
he  held  the  interest  of  the  judge,  continued:  "It's 
always  a  fight  between  two  sides,  Your  Honor.  They 
are  the  criminals  and  the  cops.  The  court  is  only 
the  referee.  On  my  side  we  know  that  once  a  man 
goes  wrong  he'll  go  wrong  again  in  nine  out  of  ten 
times.  If  he's  got  brains  and  education  like  this 
feller  Horgan  he's  got  to  be  tailed  all  the  time,  for  it 


NANCY  PRESTON  109 

ain't  the  man  with  the  blackjack  that  is  hard  to 
catch.  It's  the  man  with  brains  or  money  that  makes 
us  sweat.  The  police  don't  frame  innocent  people 
but  they'll  frame  crooks.  There  ain't  enough  money 
in  the  world  to  make  me  send  an  innocent  party  to 
prison  but  with  crooks  it's  different.  Horgan  is  al- 
ready a  two  term  man  and  my  operatives  and  the 
headquarters'  bulls  know  the  company  he  keeps.  He 's 
better  off  where  he  can't  cause  trouble.  Before  the 
trial  they  had  him  down  before  the  inspector 
and  sweated  him  for  days.  They  even  came  to  me 
for  questions  that  might  trap  him  and  make  him 
weaken. ' ' 

"Did  he  answer  their  questions?"  asked  the  judge, 
picking  up  his  volume  and  glancing  at  it  idly  as  he 
opened  it  where  a  slip  of  paper  marked  his  last  page. 

' '  Sure  he  did, ' '  Tierney  answered.  ' '  But  he  didn  't 
tell  'em  anything." 

"Did  he  speak  of  the  young  woman  who  was  his 
only  witness?" 

Tierney 's  hands  were  thrown  up  in  a  gesture  of 
disgust.  "Sure,"  he  said.  "He  told  'em  Nancy  was 
the  finest  woman  in  the  world  because  she  could  get 
away  with  the  game  of  being  on  the  level."  His  grin 
was  wide.  "What'd'yuh  think  of  that,  judge?  He 
told  'em  the  old  Straw  Nancy,  a  'cruiser,'  was  a 
saint."  Tierney  could  not  restrain  his  mirth  and 
laughed  aloud. 


110  NANCY  PRESTON 

"But  is  she  a  woman  of  the  town  now?"  asked  the 
judge. 

"Mebbe  not,"  Tierney  acceded,  "but  her  note  to 
him,  telling  him  to  beat  it  because  the  bulls  was  after 
him  showed  she  was  in  on  his  get-away  if  he  could 
make  it." 

"Perhaps  she  loves  him." 

Tierney 's  finger  nails  bit  into  the  flesh  of  his  palm. 
The  fat  old  fool  in  the  black  silk  robe  was  a  sentimen- 
talist, he  was  sure.  The  judge  watched  his  clenched 
fists  over  the  top  of  his  open  book. 

"It  is  evident  that  she  firmly  believes  in  his  inno- 
cence. And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Tierney,  while 
the  case  against  Horgan  was  strongly  enough  pre- 
sented it  was  entirely  circumstantial  and  it  does  not 
seem  at  all  impossible  that  he  was  wilfully  denied  the 
right  chance  to  come  straight  in  life  after  his  last 
term.  Tour  own  evidence,  which  I  excluded  from 
the  record,  told  of  your  putting  a  shadow  on  him  the 
moment  he  left  prison.  What  is  your  idea  of  a  just 
sentence  for  this  man?" 

"His  record  shows  him  a  habitual  criminal  and  he 
could  be  sent  away  for  life,  Your  Honor." 

"And  the  woman  he  helped  and  the  child  he  spoke 
of,  what  becomes  of  them  ? "  he  asked. 

"They  ain't  his  woman  and  child." 

"She  might  weaken  and  go  back  to  the  streets,  Mr. 
Tierney." 


NANCY  PRESTON  111 

"Then  it  would  be  up  to  the  cops  to  watch  her." 

"And  about  the  little  boy?"  asked  the  judge. 

"There's  the  Gerry  Society." 

The  judge  nipped  the  leaves  of  his  volume,  but 
glancing  at  a  little  clock  on  his  desk,  put  it  aside  and 
rose.  "The  prisoners  are  waiting  to  be  sentenced," 
he  said.  Tierney  followed  him  to  the  court 
room. 

Michael  was  brought  before  His  Honor,  handcuffed. 
Beyond  the  rail  Nancy  sat  with  tightly  clasped  hands 
and  pallid  face. 

"Michael  Horgan,"  said  the  judge,  "you  stand  con- 
victed of  grand  larceny  in  the  first  degree.  The  rec- 
ord given  me  by  the  police  department  is  not  in  your 
favor.  But  it  is  left  to  my  discretion  to  say  whether 
you  should  die  in  prison  or  have  still  another  chance. 
I  choose  to  say  the  latter  and  therefore  sentence  you  to 
ten  years  at  hard  labor." 

"There  is  a  charge  against  Nancy  Preston,  Your 
Honor,"  reminded  the  assistant  district  attorney. 
"The  chief  witness  is  here.  Perhaps  we  can  get  it 
disposed  of.  The  docket  is  pretty  heavy."  He  sig- 
naled to  Tierney  to  come  within  the  railing  and  a  court 
attendant  took  Nancy  by  the  arm  and  led  her,  half 
fainting,  through  the  gate  and  to  the  judge's  dais. 

' '  I  presume  that  all  the  evidence  against  this  woman 
came  out  in  the  trial  of  Horgan,"  said  the  assistant 
district  attorney. 


112  NANCY  PRESTON 

v 

"Is  there  any  other  evidence?"  The  judge  lifted 
his  heavy  eyes  toward  Tierney. 

"She  admitted  writing  the  note  to  Horgan,"  re- 
plied Tierney.  ' '  What  more  could  the  judge  want  ? ' ' 
he  asked  himself. 

"And  you  press  the  charge?"  asked  His  Honor. 

"I  just  turned  over  the  evidence  to  the  right  offi- 
cers of  the  law,"  he  replied,  fearful  of  this  judge  who 
carried  mercy  in  his  heart. 

"What  have  you  to  say,  Nancy?" 

"Nothing,  Sir.  I  did  all  I  could  to  live  straight 
and  honest.  I'd  do  it  all  over  again  but  he  wouldn't 
let  me." 

"Who  wouldn't  let  you,  Nancy?" 

' '  Him. ' '  She  nodded  toward  Tierney.  "  He 's  had 
a  man  watching  me  night  and  day  since  Michael  went 
away."  f 

"That's  my  business,"  muttered  Tierney. 

The  judge  frowned  and  with  an  effort  held  back 
what  he  had  in  mind  to  say  to  the  detective. 

"Nancy,"  he  said  slowly  and  impressively,  "it 
sometimes  seems  to  me  to  be  the  first  law  of  the  land 
to  kick  a  man  or  woman  when  he  or  she  falls.  In  all 
the  volumes  I  have  read  on  the  application  of  the 
criminal  law  as  a  protection  to  society  I  have  found 
only  two  in  which  the  theory  of  big  brotherhood  on 
the  part  of  the  righteous  to  the  unrighteous  has  had 
any  consideration.  No  one  seems  to  know  the  author 


NANCY  PRESTON 

of  these  two  books  and  it  appears  that  the  publishers 
believe  the  manuscripts  they  accepted  were  sent  by 
one  who  had  himself  been  hunted,  had  suffered  prison, 
had  been,  perhaps,  denied  justice  and  had  written  out 
of  intimate  knowledge.  The  law  is  not  a  human 
thing  although  it  is  framed  for  humanity.  It  is  iron, 
hard  and  bloodless.  For  that  reason  I  am  compelled 
to  find  you  guilty  by  your  own  admission  but  I  am 
going  to  suspend  sentence  and  set  you  free.  The 
sacrifice  you  made  on  the  witness  stand  for  Horgan 
should  be  written  in  letters  of  gold  to  be  read  on  the 
final  judgment  day.  I  hope  your  child  will  grow  to 
be  worthy  of  a  mother  as  brave  as  you.  You  are  free. 
God  help  you." 

For  several  moments  she  stood  staring  at  the  judge, 
fighting  down  a  hard  lump  in  her  throat.  Michael 
was  going  away  for  ten  years.  It  did  not  seem  pos- 
sible. She  had  forgotten  entirely  about  herself.  The 
sound  of  his  voice  stirred  her  from  the  lethargy  of 
despair.  He  was  talking  to  the  judge.  "I  would 
be  very  grateful  if  I  could  have  permission  to  speak 
alone  with  Mrs.  Preston  for  a  moment,"  she  heard  him 
say. 

"You  may  take  them  to  my  chambers,"  His  Honor 
instructed  the  guard  from  the  Tombs. 

In  a  corner  of  the  judge's  room,  the  door  open  so 
that  the  guard  in  the  corridor  could  keep  an  eye  on 
them,  Nancy  took  both  of  Michael's  hands  in  hers  and 


114  NANCY  PRESTON 

pressed  them  to  a  flaming  cheek.  "As  soon  as  I  can 
get  work,"  she  whispered,  "I'll  start  to  save  and  ap- 
peal the  case." 

"Listen,  Nancy,"  he  replied,  an  arm  protectingly 
about  her  shoulders,  ' '  I  have  a  letter  here  I  want  you 
to  mail  to  Mr.  Vernon  Snowden,  a  lawyer.  It  is  not 
sealed.  Enclose  your  address  to  him.  He  will  pro- 
vide you  and  Bubs  with  everything  until  I  am  free 
again  and  have  finished  the  task  before  me.  Mail  it 
as  soon  as  you  leave  this  building  and  he  will  send  aid 
to  you.  But  on  no  condition  tell  him  where  I  am 
until  I  have  seen  you  first.  You  need  never  to  worry 
about  money  again." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IN  the  week  between  the  conviction  and  sentence  of 
Michael,  Mazy  Lament,  whose  declaration  that  she 
was  going  to  become  respectable  was  no  whim  of  the 
moment,  landed  a  job  as  a  waitress  in  an  all-night 
restaurant,  her  trick  being  from  midnight  until  eight 
in  the  morning. 

"Perfect  hours  for  me,"  she  exclaimed  joyfully. 
"If  I  had  to  get  up  in  the  morning  instead  of  going 
to  bed  it  would  ruin  my  constitution.  Anyhow  it's 
best  to  break  in  on  any  change  a  little  bit  easy.  I 
knew  a  girl  once  stopped  drinking  everything  but 
water,  just  sawed  it  off  sudden,  and  stuck  to  it.  An- 
swer :  Dead. ' ' 

Nancy,  always  grateful  for  the  part  she  had  played 
in  getting  Bubs  back,  did  her  best  to  share  in  her 
cheerfulness  but  as  the  days  passed  and  she  failed  to 
get  a  place  which  would  permit  of  her  having  her 
child  with  her  all  the  time  she  realized  how  hopeless 
it  was  to  expect  genuine  companionship  with  Mazy. 
Not  that  she  thought  herself  any  better  than  the 
woman  who  had  so  bravely  hidden  herself  from  her 
daughter,  sacrificing  everything  in  life  for  her  with- 

115 


116  NANCY  PRESTON 

out  complaining,  but  she  had  long  forgotten  the  slang 
of  the  street  of  bright  lights  and  after  her  own  heroic 
years  had  come  to  yearn  for  higher  things  in  life,  a 
friend  or  two  to  love  and  respect,  her  baby  to  nurse  to 
strength  and  health,  a  tiny  corner  of  the  world,  if 
only  one  room,  to  call  home.  The  thought  of  Mi- 
chael's quiet  voice,  his  almost  divine  patience  and 
regardlessness  of  self,  his  splendid  joy  out  of  her 
Bubs,  the  sprightliness  and  playfulness  of  his  imagina- 
tion in  their  fun  together  or  over  the  lad's  first  les- 
sons, the  complete  happiness  that  had  been  theirs 
those  few  months  in  the  little  Bronx  flat,  brought  her 
to  bitter  tears  every  night  as  soon  as  the  door  closed 
behind  Mazy. 

"You  are  free.  God  help  you."  The  words  of  the 
fat  judge  often  rang  in  her  ears  and  sometimes  they 
terrified  her.  They  seemed  to  warn  her  of  greater 
evils  to  come.  Sometimes  she  would  awaken  with  the 
sounds  of  some  returning  lodger  and  lie  trembling 
with  her  boy  in  her  arms  at  the  thought  of  Luther 
Littsky  and  his  sparkling  black  eyes.  Once  there  was 
a  low  tapping  at  her  door  and  she  told  herself  that  he 
had  come  to  collect  his  bill.  For  answer  she  got  out 
of  bed  and  pushed  the  bureau  against  the  door.  The 
person  in  the  hall  went  away.  It  might  not  have 
been  Littsky  but  some  other  man,  perhaps  one  of  the 
roomers  who  had  taken  her  for  that  kind  of  a  woman 


NANCY  PRESTON  117 

or  thought  her  so  desperately  poor  that  the  clink  of 
his  money  might  tempt  her. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  house  with  whom  she  could 
trust  her  boy.  No  man  or  woman  under  its  roof 
stirred  before  eleven  o'clock  or  noon  and  the  majority 
were  all-night  prowlers,  taxi-drivers,  small-fry  gam- 
blers, girls  from  the  burlesques  and  women  who  would 
smile  through  their  paint  when  they  gave  their  occu- 
pation as  "housekeeper"  to  the  census  taker.  She 
took  Bubs  with  her  daily  in  her  journeys  through  the 
streets  to  answer  advertisements  for  help.  A  glance 
at  the  poorly  nourished  little  lad  killed  every  chance 
she  might  have  had  to  get  a  place  as  a  servant  or 
laundress.  Having  him  with  her  as  she  worked  in  a 
shop  or  restaurant  was,  of  course,  out  of  the  question. 

The  few  dollars  she  had  been  sent  by  Michael 
through  Dan  Burns  were  soon  reduced  to  a  few  pieces 
of  small  silver.  She  would  not  have  minded  borrow- 
ing from  Mazy  but  out  of  her  first  week's  salary  she 
had  to  buy  a  uniform  and  pay  a  commission  to  the 
employment  agent  who  had  placed  her  and  there  was 
left  barely  enough  to  get  her  through  until  another 
pay  day.  Littsky  had  not  come  near  her  since  the 
conviction.  Nor  had  the  woman  who  ran  the  house 
asked  her  about  rent  money. 

To  keep  Bu^s  fed,  Nancy  lived  on  crumbs,  drinking 
a  great  amount  of  water  in  order  to  distend  the  stom- 


118  NANCY  PRESTON 

ach  and  relieve  the  pains  of  hunger.  As  her  physical 
strength  was  sapped  the  distance  she  could  travel 
each  day  became  shorter  and  her  prospects  of  getting 
work  became  darker. 

She  could  not  borrow  more  than  three  dollars  and 
a  half  on  her  wedding  ring  at  any  of  the  nearby 
pawnshops  but  at  last  she  had  to  leave  it  for  that  sum 
in  order  to  be  sure  of  milk  and  crackers  for  the  boy. 

By  the  end  of  Mazy's  second  week  in  the  all-night 
restaurant  Nancy  was  suffering  from  nausea  accom- 
panied by  violent  headaches  as  the  result  of  mal- 
nutrition. 

"What  you  need,  Nancy,"  her  friend  declared  as 
she  started  for  work  just  before  midnight,  "is  a  big 
steak  and  fried  potatoes  and  you're  going  to  get  it 
to-morrow  morning.  This  is  pay  night  and  we  split 
fifty-fifty." 

"I  was  thinking  that  if  I  could  get  enough  money 
to  rent  a  room  in  a  quiet  place  where  I  could  trust 
the  boy  away  from  me  I'd  be  sure  to  land  a  job, 
Mazy,"  Nancy  replied.  "But  I'm  afraid  of  these 
people  here." 

"Say!"  cried  Mazy.  "It's  funny  the  landlady 
hasn't  cheeped  about  the  rent.  She  knows  I'm 
workin'.  Has  Littsky  been  around  yet?" 

Nancy  shook  her  head. 

"Did  he  try  to  get  fresh  with  you  the  last  time  he 
was  here,  the  time  he  sent  me  out  with  Bubs?" 


NANCY  PRESTON  119 

Nancy  nodded.  "Well,  111  just  give  you  a  tip, 
Nancy.  He's  starving  you  out,  that's  what  he's  do- 
ing. I  '11  bet  anything  I  got  he  knows  just  how  many 
crackers  is  left  in  that  box  on  the  washstand.  Did 
he  tell  you  how  to  get  in  touch  with  him  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  through  the  landlady." 

"Well,  you  just  hold  out  'till  morning,  Nancy. 
Maybe  things  will  change  with  that  beefsteak.  I'll 
bring  it  home  with  me." 

"Perhaps  the  letter  from  Michael's  friend,  Mr. 
Snowden,  will  come  in  the  morning,"  thought  Nancy 
as  her  friend  took  her  departure.  .  .  .  But  the  letter 
lay  in  an  accumulation  of  personal  mail  on  the  law- 
yer's desk  in  his  office  downtown  as  he  was  spending 
the  last  few  days  of  quiet  and  rest  from  work  in  the 
Adirondacks  on  the  advice  of  his  physician. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"TTELLO,  dearie!" 

-•-  -••  Nancy  had  undressed  and  was  ready  for 
bed,  her  soft  brown  hair  plaited  and  tied  closely  about 
her  shapely  head. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked,  leaning  close  to  the  door. 

"It's  only  me,  Mrs.  Tifft,  the  landlady.  Open  the 
door." 

"I'm  undressed  and  going  to  bed,  ma'am,"  replied 
Nancy,  trembling  at  the  thought  of  a  demand  for  rent 
money  at  midnight.  Bubs  lay  carefully  covered  and 
asleep,  his  well-worn  little  clothes  folded  neatly  over 
the  foot  of  the  bed  as  Uncle  Michael  had  taught  him. 

"It's  all  right,  dearie,"  came  from  beyond  the 
door.  "I've  brought  you  some  supper." 

In  a  violently  colored  kimono,  her  yellow  hair  done 
up  high  on  her  head,  Mrs.  Tifft  entered,  bearing  a 
tray  of  covered  dishes  piping  hot.  As  a  heavenly 
cloud,  the  aroma  of  good  things  to  eat  immediately 
filled  the  bare  room.  Bubs  stirred  in  his  sleep.  With 
a  grin  on  her  heavy  features,  intended  as  the  smile 
of  a  helping  angel,  the  landlady  placed  the  tray  on 
the  top  of  the  bureau  as  soon  as  Nancy  had  cleared  it. 

120 


NANCY  PRESTON  121 

"There  now,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "Isn't  that  a 
layout  worth  while?  Everything  hot  from  the  rotis- 
serie  around  the  corner,  right  off  the  spits,  roast  tur- 
key, mashed  potatoes,  gravy,  hot  rolls,  celery,  coffee, 
and  say,  lookit ! ' '  She  lifted  the  cover  from  a  tureen. 
"Here's  some  puree  that  can't  be  beat  on  Broadway 
from  Forty-second  to  Fifty-ninth.  He's  famous 
for  it." 

Nancy's  blue  eyes  sparkled  and  her  hands  trembled 
as  she  held  them  over  her  half  covered  breast.  The 
vapor  from  the  puree  rose  high  from  the  silver  bowl 
and  its  appetizing  odor  awakened  her  child.  Bubs 
sat  up,  rubbing  his  eyes,  fresh  from  a  dream  of  pos- 
session of  all  those  glorious  things  to  eat  he  had  seen 
and  passed  by  in  the  restaurant  windows  as  he  and  his 
mother  had  walked  the  streets. 

' '  Oh,  gee,  Mum ! "  he  muttered.  ' '  What 's  it  t "  In 
the  yellow  light  of  the  single  gas  jet  his  face  seemed 
more  than  ordinarily  thin  and  drawn. 

"I'll  fix  some  of  the  soup  for  the  boy,"  said  Mrs. 
Tifft.  "Now  you  start  and  get  your  own."  She 
spread  a  napkin  on  the  blanket  before  Bubs  and 
started  him  at  the  feast.  Nancy  was  speechless. 
What  did  it  mean?  Her  empty  stomach  craved  for 
a  little  of  this  feast.  With  an  effort  she  steadied  her 
hands,  soaked  the  half  of  a  roll  in  a  cup  of  the  puree 
and  ate  it.  Mrs.  Tifft  pulled  up  a  chair  for  her  and 
served  her  with  the  turkey  and  potatoes  and  gravy, 


122  NANCY  PRESTON 

talking  all  the  while  and  explaining  the  unlooked-for 
banquet. 

"I'm  treating  everybody  that's  in  the  house,"  she 
rattled  away.  ' '  I  cleaned  up  on  the  races  to-day  and 
cleaned  up  right.  A  gentleman  friend  passed  the  real 
tip  this  time.  Flora  Belle  walked  in  at  twenty  to  one 
and  me  with  all  of  two  hundred  dollars  on  her." 
The  blood  was  already  coursing  strongly  through 
Nancy's  veins  and  color  was  in  her  cheeks.  Bubs 
smacked  his  pale  lips  over  the  rich  food.  As  her  stom- 
ach assimilated  the  first  mouthfuls  and  the  gastric 
juices  began  to  flow,  a  pleasant  languor  came  to  her. 
When  Bubs  sank  back  on  his  pillow  with  a  sigh  of  con- 
tentment, the  mother,  with  an  occasional  glance  of 
gratitude  to  the  landlady,  continued  until  each  dish 
was  empty.  Mrs.  Tifft  covered  Bubs  and  he  was  soon 
sound  asleep.  With  lowered  voice  she  continued  her 
story  of  the  great  race  track  killing.  All  of  her  gen- 
tleman friend's  lady  friends  had  gotten  in  on  the 
tip.  There  was  a  riot  that  night  in  the  cabarets  but  she 
had  to  come  back  early  on  account  of  a  nasty  twinge 
of  neuritis.  She  couldn't  sleep  at  such  an  unearthly 
hour  and  so  was  killing  time  by  blowing  everybody  in 
the  house.  "Four  thousand  dollars!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Think  of  it!"  She  was  going  to  buy  a  furnished 
flat  in  the  building  next  door  and  run  it  for  roomers. 
She  stopped  with  a  grimace.  The  neuritis  had  her 
again.  "Just  wait  a  minute,  dearie,"  she  asked. 


NANCY  PRESTON  123 

"I'll  run  to  my  room  and  get  a  tablet.  Leave  the 
door  unlocked.  I'll  be  right  back." 

Nancy  set  the  empty  dishes  on  the  tray,  flicking  the 
few  crumbs  that  had  escaped  her  from  her  night  gown. 
Her  flesh  seemed  tingling  with  new  life.  She  sighed 
with  sheer  animal  happiness.  There  was  a  little  cof- 
fee left  in  the  silver  pot  and  she  drank  this.  The 
cream  jar  was  still  unemptied.  She  emptied  it.  Luck 
had  turned  surely,  she  thought.  In  the  morning  she 
would  take  a  chance  and  leave  Bubs  with  the  landlady 
she  had  so  unjustly  mistrusted  and  if  there  was  work 
to  be  had  in  New  York  she  would  find  it  and  tackle  it 
with  the  strength  of  an  Amazon. 

As  she  sat  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  waiting  to 
thank  Mrs.  Tifft  on  her  return,  she  half  dozed,  her 
night  gown  falling  loose  and  displaying  the  firm 
beauty  of  her  shoulders  and  breast.  The  deep  breath- 
ing of  Bubs  told  of  happy  dreams.  In  her  half- 
asleep,  half-awake  condition  she  did  not  notice  the 
passing  of  the  moments  into  minutes.  The  horns  of 
automobiles  on  the  street  outside,  telling  of  the  return 
to  bed  of  the  noctambules  of  the  neighborhood,  did  not 
shake  her  from  the  pleasant  haze.  Her  gown  fell  en- 
tirely from  her  right  shoulder  but  she  did  not  know  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AT  one  o'clock  a  heavily  built  man,  carrying  under 
his  left  arm  a  trombone  in  a  green  felt  case,  let 
himself  in  the  front  door  of  Mrs.  Tifft's  lodging  house 
and  with  the  silver  light  of  a  pocket  electric  dancing 
before  him  made  his  way  to  the  third  floor  and  the 
room  adjoining  Nancy's.  The  partition  was  of  light 
boards  covered  with  wall  paper,  for  the  two  rooms 
had  been  originally  one.  The  lodger  dropped  his  in- 
strument to  his  bed,  placed  his  pocket  lamp  beside  it 
and  without  lighting  the  gas  removed  a  picture  from 
the  wall.  A  spot  of  yellow  light  showed  from  the 
next  room  and  he  put  his  eye  to  it. 

An  hour  before,  not  many  minutes  after  Mazy 
Lament  had  started  off  to  work,  Luther  Littsky  had 
entered  the  house.  There  followed  a  waiter  from 
the  rotisserie  around  on  Broadway. 

The  man  with  the  trombone,  apparently  one  of  the 
many  cabaret  and  dance  hall  musicians  who  live  as 
near  Broadway  and  their  work  as  possible,  seemed  in 
no  hurry  to  retire  nor  did  he  seem  held  to  the  gimlet 
hole  in  the  wall  by  the  pubescent  pleasure  of  a  Peep- 
ing Tom.  Nancy's  chair  was  in  his  narrow  line  of 
vision.  He  beheld  her  asleep  in  her  disarray  and 

124 


NANCY  PRESTON  125 

upon  her  face  was  a  smile.  Nightly  his  little  peep 
hole  had  brought  him  only  tears  and  sobs  as  the  trag- 
edy of  starvation  had  been  enacted  before  him.  He 
drew  back  from  the  thin  partition  so  that  he  could 
breathe  without  uncovering  his  ambush  and  sat  down 
to  think  over  this  change.  In  the  darkness  of  his 
room  his  face,  wide  and  deep  and  white,  would  have 
startled  a  sudden  visitor  by  its  somberness.  Gloomy 
Cole,  with  instructions  to  uncover  the  bankers  for  the 
burglars  who  disturbed  the  business  of  his  employer, 
James  Tierney,  Incorporated,  was  on  his  job. 

"If  Littsky  is  putting  up  for  Nancy,"  he  had  been 
told  by  B.  H.,  ''all  yah  gotta  do  is  to  hang  close  to 
Nancy.  A  woman,  never  mind  how  careful  she  may 
be,  can  queer  the  best  crook  in  the  world.  Littsky 
ain't  even  seen  that  broad  face  of  yours,  Gloomy,  and 
don't  let  him  see  it  until  you're  ready  to  make  the 
collar.  Just  remember  what  I  tell  you.  No  excuses 
go  with  me  this  time." 

It  was  not  a  hard  job,  he  thought,  as  he  sat  close 
to  his  avenue  of  communication,  his  ears  pricked  for 
the  least  sound  beyond  the  thin  wall.  Three  times 
Littsky  had  visited  the  lodging  house  but  always  when 
Nancy  was  out.  The  rest  of  the  time  he  had  spent  in 
his  finely  furnished  apartment  not  many  blocks  away, 
at  the  theater,  in  the  cabarets  and  gambling  houses  or 
with  his  associates  of  the  underworld  in  automobile 
rides  to  road  houses  in  Westchester,  New  Jersey,  and 


126  NANCY  PRESTON 

on  Long  Island.  When  Littsky  was  off  on  these  trips 
Gloomy  had  shadowed  Nancy  and  her  little  boy.  He 
had  seen  the  mother  grow  paler  and  weaker  and  the 
boy  beg  to  be  allowed  to  stare  in  the  windows  where 
spitted  fowls  turned  before  the  grates  of  glowing  coals 
or  asbestos  and  in  other  windows  where  pastry  was 
arranged  with  an  art  that  would  tempt  even  the  well- 
fed  children  of  the  rich. 

He  could  not  help  but  realize  the  frightful  struggle 
of  the  woman  to  stay  square  with  the  world  and  her 
conscience  and  he  had  so  reported  to  his  chief. 

"That  part  of  it  is  for  the  Bureau  of  Charities," 
B.  H.  had  told  him.  "As  long  as  Littsky  is  paying 
her  rent  and  going  to  that  lodging  house  there's  a 
chance  of  something  doing  for  us.  What  we're  run- 
ning is  a  detective  bureau. ' ' 

Gloomy  took  another  peep.  She  was  still  sleeping. 
Until  she  got  in  bed  with  the  light  out  there  would  be 
no  sleep  for  him.  He  returned  to  his  chair.  Well, 
he  thought,  that  crook  who  had  doped  him  with  a 
cigarette  and  nearly  cost  him  his  job,  was  put  away 
for  ten  years  anyhow.  There  was  some  consolation 
in  that  although,  try  as  he  could,  as  he  mulled  the  task 
in  hand,  he  failed  to  get  any  comfort  from  the  fact 
that  in  this  three-cornered  game  permitted  by  the  ad- 
ministrators of  the  law  one  of  the  corners  was  occu- 
pied by  a  starving  mother  and  child. 

"Nancy!"    The    name    was    hardly    more    than 


NANCY  PRESTON  127 

breathed  but  it  reached  him  and  his  right  eye  was 
glued  immediately  to  the  gimlet  hole.  She  was  still 
asleep  in  the  chair  but  looking  down  upon  her  with 
burning  eyes  and  trembling  hands  extended  waa 
Littsky.  Cole  saw  him  glance  in  the  direction  of  the 
bed  and  scowl.  The  child  was  there. 

"Nancy!"  he  repeated  ever  so  softly  and  then 
reached  over  and  clasped  her  half  naked  body  sud- 
denly, fiercely,  sinking  on  his  knees  beside  her. 

Nancy's  eyes  were  wide  with  terror  as  she  tried  to 
shake  herself  free  of  his  arms.  Her  hair  became  un- 
fastened and  the  two  heavy  braids  whipped  about  her 
white  shoulders. 

"If  you  scream  it  will  be  all  the  worse  for  you," 
panted  Littsky.  "They  can't  hear  you  on  the  street, 
anyhow  ...  if  you  bite  I'll  smash  you."  She  fell 
from  the  chair  to  the  floor.  With  the  sounds  of  the 
scuffling  some  one  entered  the  room.  Cole  could  hear 
the  door  open  and  then  softly  close. 

"Mumsey!"  Bubs  had  been  awakened.  "Mum- 
sey!"  he  called  again  and  then  Cole  could  hear  him 
crying  in  fear  at  the  spectacle  before  his  eyes. 

"Take  that  brat  out  of  here,"  called  Littsky,  get- 
ting to  his  feet  and  clasping  a  hand  over  Nancy's 
mouth.  Cole  caught  a  glimpse  of  Mrs.  Tifft  as  she 
obeyed  and  heard  the  sobs  of  the  child  die  away  down 
the  corridor.  Littsky  and  Nancy  were  out  of  his  vi- 
sion in  another  moment  and  Cole  knew  that  the  pro- 


128  NANCY  PRESTON 

fessional  master  of  the  town's  unfortunate  women 
would  soon  overpower  her.  The  sounds  of  scuffling 
continued  and  then  Nancy  managed  to  break  away. 
She  was  again  in  his  line  of  vision,  her  night  garment 
torn  to  ribbons,  her  flesh  crimson  in  spots. 

"For  the  love  of  God  listen  to  me  a  moment, 
Littsky,"  she  begged.  She  held  to  the  back  of  a 
chair,  ready  to  raise  and  swing  it.  Littsky  did  not? 
renew  the  attack.  Cole  could  hear  his  heavy  breath- 
ing. "It  isn't  for  myself  I'm  fighting,  but  it's  for 
my  baby.  I  don't  count.  But  even  now  he's  old 
enough  to  remember  and  you've  already  put  a  curse 
on  him."  White  spots  made  by  the  pressure  of 
Littsky 's  fingers  showed  about  her  mouth  as  she 
begged  for  mercy  from  the  man  who  knew  no  desires 
save  gain  and  the  satisfaction  of  his  other  lust.  ' '  I  'm 
going  to  pay  you  back  every  cent,  the  money  for  the 
bondsman,  the  money  for  the  lawyer  and  the  rent 
money.  Before  God,  Littsky,  I  'm  going  to  do  it-  and 
pay  the  interest  on  it."  She  half  raised  the  chair  as 
Littsky  crouched  for  another  attack.  "I'll  die  first," 
she  warned.  ' '  Get  back ! ' '  The  lowering  of  the  chair 
told  Cole  that  she  had  gained  another  brief  respite. 

"You  didn't  mind  sending  for  me  and  my  money 
when  they  had  you  locked  up,"  he  heard  Littsky  sneer. 

"I  was  afraid  the  boy  would  die,"  she  pleaded. 
"If  I'd  had  any  money  when  they  first  took  me  to 
the  station  I  could  have  got  out  and  gone  back  for 


NANCY  PRESTON  129 

him.  The  sergeant  could  have  got  a  bondsman  for 
me  in  five  minutes.  Even  the  doorman  wouldn  't  tele- 
phone to  the  Legal  Aid  for  me  unless  he  was  paid. 
I  did  have  a  little  money  but  Tierney's  man  took  me 
away  before  I  could  think  to  ask  for  it.  I  was  des- 
perate and  half  crazy  when  I  thought  of  you.  Give 
me  a  chance  to  pay  you  right." 

"You'll  pay  me  my  way,"  came  from  Littsky.  "I 
want  you." 

"For  God's  sake,  please,  Littsky,  I'm  an  honest 
woman.  You've  got  me  in  a  trap,"  she  sobbed.  The 
tears  blinded  her  eyes.  Littsky  leaped  for  her  and 
Cole  drew  back  from  his  peep  hole  to  breathe. 


CHAPTER  XXVH 

IN  the  final  struggle,  Littsky  managed  to  hold  his 
prey  fast  in  his  right  arm  and  reach  the  gas  jet, 
turning  out  the  light.  He  was  a  creature  of  darkness, 
indeed,  in  his  way  a  prince  of  darkness.  Mrs.  Tifft 
was  well-paid,  the  boy  was  out  of  the  room.  The 
earlier  part  of  the  night  he  had  spent  in  thrilling  an- 
ticipation of  this  act.  He  had  starved  Nancy  in  vain. 
She  had  not  come  across.  Then  he  would  feed  her 
up  and  take  his  toll  for  his  time  and  trouble.  Al- 
ways a  careful  drinker,  he  measured  his  champagne 
that  one  night  with  the  skill  of  a  dope  fiend  who 
knows  to  the  fraction  of  a  grain  the  dose  that  will 
put  him  through  the  commission  of  a  crime. 

He  owned  the  roof  over  the  head  of  the  lodging 
house  keeper,  owned  her  body  and  soul  and  half  the 
lodgers  in  the  place  looked  up  to  him  with  admiration 
and  hopes  of  a  tip  on  a  good  thing  to  be  played  in  the 
pool  rooms.  Few  lost  when  he  passed  the  word.  If 
a  girl  was  in  trouble  with  the  police,  if  she  was  stone 
broke,  as  poor  Nancy  was  when  she  entered  the  sta- 
tion, the  bars  slipped  back  and  out  she  walked  pro- 
vided she  was  solid  with  him.  Time  and  again  the 
police  had  tried  to  get  him  because  of  the  complaints 

130 


NANCY  PRESTON  131 

of  the  anti-vice  societies.  His  money  had  beaten  them 
every  time.  Once,  when  he  was  near  conviction,  he 
had  hired  the  most  famous  lawyer  in  New  York  City, 
perhaps  the  most  famous  in  the  United  States,  a  man 
high  in  the  Bar  Association  and  at  one  time  high  in 
the  politics  of  the  Empire  State.  As  an  associate  he 
also  hired  the  crookedest  underworld  lawyer  known 
to  thieves  and  panderers,  a  man  later  trapped  by  the 
district  attorney,  sent  to  prison  and  disbarred.  The 
gentleman  and  the  crook  made  an  ideal  combination. 
The  chief  witness  against  Littsky  recanted.  .  .  .  She 
was  a  woman  .  .  .  was  convicted  of  perjury,  was  well- 
paid  for  her  sacrifice  and  Littsky  was  cleared.  The 
famous  lawyer  had  scored  another  victory,  and  had 
earned  another  large  fee.  This  is  not  fiction.  The 
law  was  not  wrong.  The  administration  of  the  law 
was. 

Littsky  was  not  afraid  of  the  police  as  an  organiza- 
tion any  more  than  might  have  been  a  Tammany 
Assembly  District  leader  who  kept  his  saloon  open  on 
Sundays.  He  had  his  victim  ready  for  him  and  was 
waiting.  But  there  was  always  danger  of  a  bad  actor 
appearing,  a  new  man,  unused  to  the  ropes  and  with- 
out knowledge  of  the  precedents  upon  which  Tender- 
loin cops  and  bulls  held  their  jobs  and  got  what  was 
coming  to  them.  Some  such  greenhorn  might  take 
the  place  of  a  "regular"  on  the  beat,  because  of  sick- 
ness or  a  three  alarm  fire  in  the  tenements  of  Hell's 


132  NANCY  PRESTON 

Kitchen,  a  few  blocks  west.  Then  the  whole  works 
would  be  in  danger.  A  scream  from  a  house  where 
screams  of  laughter,  delirium  or  fear  went  unheeded 
many  nights  in  a  month,  might  precipitate  a  single  ar- 
rest and  an  expose  might  follow.  The  lid  would  be 
off  and  the  ordure  just  under  the  crust  would  shock 
the  myopic  decent  element,  might  even  change  the 
whole  administration  of  the  city  .  .  .  one  scream  of  a 
woman ! 

"You  can  yell  your  damned  head  off,"  he  panted 
as  he  dragged  Nancy  across  the  pitch-black  room  to  the 
bed,  still  warm  from  the  little  body  of  her  son.  But 
she  did  not  scream.  She  fought  and  begged  her 
bondsman  and  deliverer  from  the  hands  of  the  police 
to  be  merciful,  to  let  her  go,  to  let  her  keep  her  de- 
cency and  self-respect  for  her  child's  sake,  whined 
like  a  hurt  animal,  her  bruised  face  scalded  by  her 
tears,  her  tired  arms  still  flaying  through  the  dark- 
ness until  she  was  hurled  on  her  back  and  his  hot 
breath  scorched  her. 

"By  God,  Nancy!"  cried  Littsky  in  triumph. 

A  little  beam  of  silver  struck  across  the  room  from 
the  door.  For  a  moment  a  white  disk  danced  about 
the  bed  and  then  fell  full  in  the  black  eyes  of  this 
Broadway  Petronius  Arbiter  at  the  long-delayed 
fruition  of  his  plans. 

There  was  still  enough  fight  in  Nancy  to  throw  the 


NANCY  PRESTON  133 

beast  from  her  body.  The  light  followed  him  and  a 
voice  sounded,  slow  and  impassionate  as  the  clatter 
and  grating  together  of  box  cars  as  a  freight  train 
comes  to  a  halt.  So  did  the  words  come. 

"If  you  gotta  gun,  don't  reach  for  it." 

Littsky  could  see  nothing.  The  little  circle  of  light 
blinded  him. 

"You're  pinched,"  came  the  voice. 

"It's  a  hold-up.  How  much  do  you  want?"  re- 
torted Littsky.  "I've  got  a  thousand  in  my  pockets." 

"Nothing  doing.  Sit  still.  If  you  move  I'll  bore 
you." 

Nancy  groped  her  way  to  the  floor  and  followed  the 
silver  beam  on  her  hands  and  knees. 

"Save  me,"  she  whispered.  "Help  me  get  out  of 
this  place." 

"Grab  your  clothes,  go  in  the  next  room  to  your 
right,  light  the  gas,  get  dressed.  Don 't  make  no  noise. 
You'll  see  a  horn  in  a  green  case  on  the  bed.  That's 
the  room.  Hurry." 

As  she  fumbled  about  in  the  darkness,  Littsky  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  his  face  the  only  thing  in  the 
room  illumined,  conjuring  his  wits  for  a  way  out. 
The  thought  came  to  him  that  Nancy's  past  would  be 
his  best  defense.  No  one  would  believe  her  story. 
Then,  too,  she  had  let  him  pay  the  rent  in  this  place. 
A  fine  for  disorderly  conduct  would  be  the  only  re- 
sult. His  courage  came  fast. 


184  NANCY  PRESTON 

"You'd  better  take  the  money,  Bo,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Nothing  doing."  Nancy  was  already  out  of  the 
room  and  the  man  with  the  light  in  his  hand  could 
see  the  little  yellow  star  from  his  gas  jet  shine  in  the 
partition. 

"I'll  break  you,"  warned  Littsky. 

"Mebbe." 

"What  are  you  going  to  charge  me  with?" 

"I'd  hate  to  tell  you.    It  would  dirty  me  mouth." 

Littsky 's  courage  left  him.  He  could  not  tell 
whether  his  captor  was  a  harness  bull  or  just  a  plain 
clothes  man.  He  might  be  the  legal  agent  of  one  of 
the  vice  societies  and  might  have  been  after  him  ever 
since  that  case  of  the  two  little  girls,  the  case  when 
the  gentleman  and  the  crook  members  of  the  bar  had 
saved  him  together. 

Nancy  had  slipped  into  her  clothes  and  in  the  dark 
hall  Gloomy  Cole  heard  her  brief  exchange  of  words 
with  Mrs.  Tifft  as  she  demanded  and  got  her  child 
and  took  him  in  his  room  to  be  dressed. 

"Who's  this?"  the  landlady  demanded  drowsily, 
for  the  comforting  evening  dose  of  dope  had  been 
large. 

"You  and  Littsky  is  pinched,  that's  all,"  said  Cole, 
flashing  for  the  fraction  of  a  second  his  light  against 
his  badge.  ' '  Git  in  the  room  and  keep  still. "  As  she 
obeyed,  Cole  found  the  key,  placed  it  in  the  outside 
of  the  lock  and  gave  his  last  command  to  the  pair. 


NANCY  PRESTON  135 

"Don't  make  any  noise.  There's  a  man  at  the  foot 
of  the  fire  escape,  another  on  the  roof  and  one  at  every 
door  and  window  downstairs.  The  wagons  will  be 
here  in  a  minute."  He  turned  the  lock  in  the  door, 
entered  his  own  room  and  picked  up  his  trombone. 
"Beat  it,"  he  ordered  Nancy.  As  she  and  the  boy 
hurried  out  into  the  gray-lit  street  and  joined  the 
first  flow  of  pedestrian  traffic,  Cole  threw  the  key  to 
Nancy's  room  in  a  corner  of  the  hall,  squeezed  his 
trombone  under  his  arm  and  left  the  lodging  house. 

"I  guess  my  job's  gone  this  time,"  he  sighed. 
"But  the  horn  is  worth  thirty-five  dollars  if  it's 
worth  a  cent." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THERE  was  a  minute  or  two  of  dead  silence  in  the 
lodging  house.  Cole  had  turned  his  humane 
trick  quietly.  Mrs.  Tifft  was  so  heavy  with  her  fa- 
vorite drug,  cocaine,  that  not  a  word  or  whimper  es- 
caped her  after  the  lock  clicked  in  the  door.  She 
groped  for  Nancy's  bed,  found  it  and  fell  over  on  her 
side,  dead  to  the  world. 

The  last  of  the  lodgers,  a  woman,  entered  the  house, 
stumbled  up  the  stairs  to  the  top  floor  and  pulled 
down  her  shade,  for  the  light  of  day  was  cutting  in 
through  the  east-and-west  street  which  stretched  from 
river  to  river,  from  the  squalor  of  First  avenue, 
through  the  twin  gray  steeples  of  Saint  Patrick's 
Cathedral,  across  the  roofs  of  mansions,  across  de- 
serted Broadway  and  onward  to  the  poverty  of  Ninth, 
Tenth  and  Eleventh  avenues.  Rich  and  poor  homes 
it  reached,  a  high-builded  house  of  God  and  many 
scores  of  brothels.  It  made  silver  the  foam  on  Man- 
o '-war's  reef  between  Manhattan  and  Queens  in  the 
East  river  and  lightened  the  shadows  of  Hell's  Kitchen 
where  the  street  ended  at  the  docks  of  the  Hudson. 

Some  of  the  gray  light  of  the  dawn  seeped  into  the 
stairways  and  corridors  of  Mrs.  Tifft 's  lodging  house. 

136 


NANCY  PRESTON  137 

The  door  of  the  room  opposite  that  which  Nancy  had 
occupied  opened  slowly.  A  man  of  slight  build,  fully 
dressed,  a  cloth  cap  pulled  well  down  over  his  eyes, 
his  right  arm  stiff  at  his  side,  slipped  into  the  hall 
and  put  his  head  close  to  the  door  where  Littsky  and 
Mrs.  Tifft  were  held  prisoners.  As  he  listened,  his 
eyes  searched  the  carpeted  corridor.  They  caught  a 
glint  of  metal.  It  was  the  key  that  Cole  had  tossed 
aside.  With  quick,  silent  steps  he  reached  it  and  re- 
turned to  the  door. 

Within  Nancy 's  room  Littsky 's  keen  ears  caught  the 
light  sound. 

' '  Better  call  it  off, ' '  he  advised  through  the  keyhole. 
' '  I  got  friends  and  I  got  money.  You  can 't  put  any- 
thing over  on  me  for  this.  I  can  get  bail  to  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  if  I  need  it  and  then  I'll  make  you 
sweat. ' ' 

"I  can't  trust  you,"  whispered  back  the  man  out- 
side. 

"I  got  the  cash,  a  thousand,  with  me.  Open  the 
door  and  I'll  hand  it  to  you." 

' '  You  got  a  gun,  too. ' ' 

"I  ain't  got  any  gun.  I'll  stand  with  my  back  to 
you  and  drop  the  money." 

"Do  it." 

"I'm  ready." 

The  key  turned  in  the  lock  and  the  door  opened. 
Littsky,  with  the  peculiar  fastidiousness  of  his  kind, 


138  NANCY  PRESTON 

had  carefully  straightened  his  clothes  in  the  darkness 
of  the  room.  His  trim  body  stood  in  the  frame  of  the 
door,  erect,  shoulders  squared,  his  back  to  the  man  he 
thought  he  was  bribing.  In  his  right  hand  was  a  roll 
of  paper  money.  His  fingers  relaxed  and  it  dropped 
to  the  threshold.  The  stiffened  right  arm  of  the  man 
in  the  hall  bent  upward  and  was  suddenly  raised  high 
above  him.  A  blackjack  descended  and  Littsky  sank 
like  the  weed  that  he  was  under  the  blow. 

The  man  in  the  cap  slipped  his  silent  weapon  into  a 
back  pocket  under  the  tails  of  his  coat,  turned  the  vic- 
tim over  with  his  toe,  rolled  him  again,  with  a  stiffer 
kick,  further  in  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  Mrs. 
Tifft  lay  on  the  bed  beyond  reach  of  sound.  It  was 
the  first  hour  of  the  day.  Her  lodgers  were  in  the 
deep  sleep  of  darkened  rooms  after  a  night  of  what 
some  of  them  called  pleasure  and  others  called  busi- 
ness. 

There  was  plenty  of  time.  This  room  would  be 
dark  until  the  sun  reached  the  meridian  and  silvered 
the  air-shaft  into  which  its  one  window  opened.  The 
man  with  the  cap  and  the  blackjack  picked  up  the 
money  and  then  knelt  beside  Littsky  and  unscrewed 
the  diamond  stud  in  his  stiff  evening  shirt.  A  huge 
diamond  solitaire  he  worked  from  a  finger  of  his 
victim's  left  hand.  The  effort  to  get  this  jewel  free 
from  its  place  stirred  Littsky 's  stunned  brain.  His 
eyes  opened  slowly.  They  beheld  the  eyes  of  the  man 


NANCY  PRESTON  139 

who  had  felled  him,  saw  his  long,  keen,  sinister  un- 
derjaw  and  his  thin,  clean-shaven  lips. 

" You?' 'he  asked. 

"It's  me,  Noonan."  The  man  in  the  cap  put  his 
face  close  to  that  of  his  victim.  "Take  a  good  look, 
Littsky,"  he  said.  "It's  Noonan,  Mamie  Noonan 's 
brother."  Littsky 's  black  eyes  started  from  his  head 
with  terror.  His  brow  was  beaded  with  sweat.  He 
had  beaten  out  the  law  with  his  money  in  the  case  of 
Mamie  Noonan.  Two  trials  and  two  hung  juries! 
Even  the  public  had  tired  of  the  case  and  Mamie 
Noonan  was  on  the  town. 

Noonan  (glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  patch  of 
dull  gray  made  by  the  air-shaft  window.  He  lifted 
his  head  and  listened,  but  there  was  no  sound.  Mrs. 
Tifft  lay  like  a  log  on  the  bed.  His  right  hand  sought 
the  dark  throat  of  Littsky.  Five  strong,  thin  fingers 
closed  on  it.  The  eyes  popped  a  bit  and  then  sank 
back  deep  in  their  sockets.  The  body  in  its  fine  linen 
and  broadcloth  twitched  and  was  still.  The  fingers 
at  the  throat  of  the  prostrate  thing  tightened  and 
tightened.  They  held  there  until  the  limbs  on  the 
cheap,  dirty  carpet  stiffened. 

The  man  with  the  cap  got  to  his  feet,  stepped  softly 
from  the  room,  closed  the  door,  descended  the  stairs 
and  made  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

QHORTLY  after  eight  o'clock  Mazy  Lament,  a 
^  beefsteak  and  a  portion  of  fried  onions  done  up 
in  a  cardboard  box  under  her  arm,  let  herself  into  the 
Tifft  house  and  ran  up  the  stairs.  A  glance  into 
Nancy's  room  froze  her  blood.  Littsky  lay  at  her 
feet,  dead.  His  tongue  was  extended  and  his  gums 
showed.  There  was  light  enough  in  the  room  for  her 
to  notice  the  traces  of  the  fight  Nancy  had  put  up  for 
her  hard-won  sense  of  decency.  Here  and  there  were 
strips  of  white  cotton  cloth,  portions  of  her  night 
gown,  and  by  the  bed  a  tuft  of  hair.  A  chair  was 
upset  and  broken. 

Here  was  not  only  a  case  for  the  police  but  one  for 
the  coroner.  It  was  a  combination  hinting  of  the 
electric  chair.  All  the  people  in  her  class  in  life  knew 
about  that  little  piece  of  yellow  furniture.  Reports 
of  murder  trials  and  executions  made  their  only  intel- 
lectual folder.  She  turned  to  run  away  but  some- 
thing big  in  her  heart,  her  game  heart,  made  her  turn 
again,  step  over  the  dead  body  and  go  to  the  bed. 
She  thought  it  was  Nancy  lying  there.  She  recog- 
nized the  drugged  landlady.  Nancy  and  her  boy  were 
gone.  Littsky  had  gotten  his.  He  deserved  it  and 

140 


NANCY  PRESTON  141 

more,  which  he  would  get  in  hell,  if  there  was  a  hell 
after  this  life.  She  cleared  out  as  if  she  had  herself 
done  this  job  over  which  she  raised  her  skirts,  hoping 
that  Nancy  had  gotten  a  good  start.  Nancy  had  every 
right  in  the  world  to  kill  him.  If  she  was  caught, 
she,  Mazy,  would  swear  to  anything,  self-defense,  ex- 
treme provocation,  anything,  to  help  her. 

Minus  the  money  she  had  paid  for  the  steak  and 
onions,  Mazy  had  her  week 's  wages  in  her  pocketbook, 
tucked  down  into  a  bosom  that  had  known  the  sale  of 
many  feigned  sighs  before  she  watched  from  the  win- 
dow of  a  village  church  her  daughter  ride  away  with 
the  man  she  loved  and  was  married  to.  This  was  no 
town  for  her,  New  York.  The  fine  tooth  comb  of  the 
police  department  would  be  raked  through  her  stratum 
of  life  in  a  few  hours.  She  hurried  east  to  the  Grand 
Central  depot  and  took  a  train  for  Boston.  Not 
until  the  negro  maid  showed  up  at  noon  would  there 
be  a  reasonable  chance  of  the  murder  being  reported. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

AT  ten  o'clock  Gloomy  Cole,  with  his  precious  slip- 
horn  under  his  right  arm,  lowered  himself  into 
a  chair  in  the  anteroom  of  his  employer,  once  more 
to  worry  over  his  chief's  state  of  temper.  Groans 
came  from  the  sanctum  when  the  door  opened.  Occa- 
sionally the  voice  of  Bonehead  would  utter  a  curse  of 
no  mean  quality. 

Agnes  brushed  through  the  door  in  a  high  state  of 
nerves. 

"What's  the  matter  with  B.  H.,  Agnes?"  asked 
Cole,  catching  the  frill  of  her  little  white  office  apron 
and  holding  her. 

"It's  that  pain  come  on  him  again,"  she  told  him. 
"He's  got  a  bum  appendix  but  there  ain't  anybody 
in  this  world  can  tell  him  he  ought  to  get  it  cut  off. 
He  says  his  grandfather  didn't  have  any  appendicitis 
but  just  plain  belly-ache.  I  told  him  he  ought  to  lay 
off  a  few  days  and  get  it  packed  in  ice  so  it  would 
shrink  some.  And  what  d'yuh  think  he  says, 
Gloomy?"  She  shifted  her  chewing  gum. 

"What?"  asked  the  sad-faced  one. 

"He  told  me  to  pack  my  uncle  in  ice." 

"You  got  off  light  at  that,"  Gloomy  informed  her, 

142 


NANCY  PRESTON  143 

consolingly.  "He  must  be  in  a  pretty  good  humor." 
A  sound  between  a  howl  and  a  curse,  as  Texas  Darcy 
left  Tierney's  private  office  put  a  quick  end  to  Cole's 
forced  optimism. 

"Say,  Sad  Face,"  greeted  Texas  on  his  way  out. 
"  B.  H.  told  me  to  get  my  hooks  on  you  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible and  send  you  in.  Maybe  he  thinks  keeping  com- 
pany with  an  old  tombstone  will  help  him  a  little." 

Cole,  clinging  to  his  horn,  poked  his  wide  face 
around  the  edge  of  the  door  and  asked:  "Wanta  see 
me,  Boss?" 

"I  don't  wanta  see  you,  but  business  compels  me 
to, ' '  was  the  reply.  ' '  Come  in  and  sit  down  there. ' ' 
Tierney's  heavy  features  were  white  with  pain. 
"Just  wait  a  minute  until  some  of  this  belly-ache 
leaves  me, ' '  he  added.  He  turned  to  the  window  and 
watched  the  little  white  plumes  of  steam  from  the  tur- 
rets and  towers  of  the  city's  tip,  the  distant  dodging, 
fussy  little  tugs  of  the  harbor  and  the  play  of  glorious 
September  sunlight  in  the  ever  dancing  wave  crests 
made  by  the  water  traffic.  In  his  own  rough  way  he 
was  invoking  the  power  of  mind  over  matter.  His 
grunts  and  groans  diminished  as  the  pain  left  him 
and  color  came  back  to  his  jowls. 

"Now,  then,"  he  began,  with  a  glance  at  the  im- 
passive unreadable  countenance  of  his  operative. 
"Tell  me  a  somethin'." 

For  the  moment  Gloomy  was  for  laying  bare  his 


144  NANCY  PRESTON 

own  miserable  heart,  telling  all  the  details  of  the  hoax 
by  which  he  had  saved  Nancy  but  by  which  he  had 
spoiled  Tierney's  plans.  A  sense  of  caution,  how- 
ever, made  him  hold  back.  His  maxim  was:  "What 
people  don't  know  won't  hurt  'em." 

"Agnes  was  telling  me  about  your  belly-ache 
and  .  .  ." 

"Is  that  all  she's  got  to  do  except  powder  her 
nose?"  his  chief  interrupted.  "The  poor  Bronx 
rough-neck!" 

"I  knew  a  feller  once  went  along  with  the  belly- 
ache for  three  years  and  when  they  cut  him  open  it 
was  too  late." 

"Too  bad  about  this  feller,"  sarcastically  mused 
Tierney.  "Did  he  work  for  a  living  regular  and  eat 
three  meals  every  day  ?  Or  did  he  play  the  piano  or 
the  trombone  for  a  living  ? ' ' 

"They  found  it  was  busted,"  calmly  resumed  Cole. 

"They  did?" 

' '  So  all  they  could  do  was  to  mop  him  up  some  and 
send  for  his  widow. ' ' 

"They  should  have  sent  for  the  coroner.  When 
these  surgeons  get  a  guy  on  the  table  and  it's  a  des- 
perate case  they  send  out  a  tip  to  all  their  friends 
and  the  grand  stand  is  filled  when  the  poor  mutt 
what's  paying  the  expenses  is  stretched  out  for  the 
operation.  It's  always  a  success.  Everybody  ap- 
plauds and  writes  articles  about  how  neat  the  job 


NANCY  PRESTON  145 

was  and  then  the  widow  goes  down  to  the  insurance 
office.  Say,  Gloomy,  there's  a  Marine  recruiting  sta- 
tion up  at  Forty-second  street  and  Sixt'  avener. 
You  can  take  a  run  up  there  and  tell  'em  about  it." 

The  Old  Man  was  in  fine  humor,  in  reaction  from 
the  pain  of  the  first  hour  of  the  morning.  Cole  foxily 
awaited  the  turn  of  the  conversation  to  business  mat- 
ters, dandling  his  trombone  on  his  knees. 

"You  been  tailin'  Littsky  and  Nancy  two  weeks 
and  you  ain't  got  nothin'  on  'em,"  Tierney  began 
at  last.  "I'm.  thinking  that  Littsky  ain't  in  on  the 
burglar  game.  I  guess  it  was  just  because  he  wanted 
her  that  he  got  the  bond  put  up  and  hired  the  lawyer. 
Did  you  notice  him  double-cross  Horgan?  No.  Of 
course  not.  Well,  I  guess  Littsky  pulled  that  to  get 
the  woman.  But  that's  up  to  the  Committee  on 
Morals  or  something. "  He  smoothed  down  his  bristles 
thoughtfully  and  Cole,  with  relief,  felt  his  job  safe. 
His  assignment  was  to  be  changed. 

"There's  a  certain  big  lawyer  downtown,  Mr. 
Vernon  Snowden,  been  making  inquiries  about  a  man 
that  fits  Mike  Horgan 's  description  somewhat,"  he 
informed  his  operative.  "The  trouble  with  him  is 
that  he  wants  to  take  all  he  can  get  and  give  nothing 
back.  He's  a  low-tide  clam  for  conversation,  this 
swell  guy  is.  Now  what  I  want  to  know  is  why  he's 
after  getting  in  touch  with  this  Horgan,  if  Horgan  is 
the  man.  Mr.  Snowden  is  an  office  lawyer,  not  a  court 


146  NANCY  PRESTON 

lawyer,  and  he  doesn't  know  any  more  about  the  ways 
of  the  world  than  the  Pope  cooped  up  in  the  Vatican, 
although  the  Pope  could  tell  him  something  about 
bulls.  How's  that?"  It  was  a  jest,  a  quip,  a  play  on 
words.  A  joke  from  Tierney  was  as  rare  as  a  blue 
rose  or  a  green  sunset  or  a  river  running  up  hill. 
Had  Agnes  been  in  the  room  she  would  have  caught 
it  without  muffing  or  fumbling  and  would  have 
shrieked. 

But  Cole  did  not  know  that  the  Papal  decrees  were 
called  bulls  as  well  as  were  New  York  detectives.  The 
keen  witticism  glanced  from  him  like  a  small  boy's 
marble  shot  against  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar. 

"I  said,"  repeated  Tierney,  "the  Pope  could  tell 
him  about  bulls." 

"Sure,"  agreed  Cole,  seemingly  ready  to  burst  into 
tears. 

Tierney  gave  up  trying  to  put  it  over  and  returned 
to  business.  "This  Snowden  wants  a  man  to  help 
him.  I  want  you  to  go  to  his  office  and  pump  him  so 
dry  he'll  squeak  when  he  walks.  If  this  Mike  Hor- 
gan  is  some  fashionable  lunatic  I  gotta  be  sure  in  the 
interest  of  my  clients  that  his  money  don't  turn  him 
loose.  It's  either  the  foolish  house  for  him  or  Sing 
Sing.  Get  me?"  Cole  nodded.  "Snowden  don't 
have  any  but  rich  clients.  Years  ago  he  came  to  me 
asking  about  a  missing  party  that  made  me  think  of 
Horgan  but  he  wouldn't  loosen  up  and  I  don't  work 


NANCY  PRESTON  147 

in  the  dark  with  nobody.  It  may  be  that  he  has  a  lot 
of  money  for  this  Horgan  from  some  estate  and  none 
of  his  people  know  he  is  a  crook.  If  that's  so  Horgan 
will  go  to  the  bat  and  with  real  money  anybody  can 
get  out  of  jail.  He'll  put  it  over  on  me.  Get  that?" 

"Sure." 

' '  Here 's  his  card  with  the  address.  Tell  him  noth- 
ing. Take  your  time.  Horgan  is  safe." 

"Then  I  drop  Nancy?"  asked  Gloomy  with  an  ap- 
proach of  happiness  in  his  voice. 

"Yes." 

"What  11  I  do  with  this?"  asked  the  operative  as 
he  held  out  his  trombone  in  rising  from  his  chair. 

"You  might  save  it  until  the  holidays,"  suggested 
B.  H.  with  the  right  corner  of  his  mouth  dragging 
heavily,  "and  send  it  to  Caruso  as  a  Christmas  gift." 
As  Gloomy  reached  the  door  his  chief  shouted  to  him: 
"Don't  bother  me  with  no  reports  for  a  month.  I 
don't  wanta  see  you  or  hear  from  you  'till  you  can 
tell  me  somethin'." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

'  '\  \  THAT  you  doin '  to-day  ? ' ' 

V  V  "Me?"  asked  Gloomy,  as  Agnes  held  him 
up  in  the  assembly  room  of  the  Tierney  offices. 
"Nuthin'.  I  got  a  month  off." 

"Lemme  your  badge.  Quick.  We're  all  caught  in 
a  corner.  I  could  use  a  thousand  badges  and  State 
licenses  this  very  day." 

Gloomy  unpinned  his  shield  hesitatingly. 

"Speed  up,"  snapped  Agnes.     "I  got  to  have  it.'; 

"What's  all  the  fuss  about?"  he  demanded.  "I 
ain't  got  a  thing  on  me  to  identify  me,  not  a  thing. 
I  just  come  off  a  case  and  ain  't  had  time  even  to  write 
my  name  and  business  address  on  a  card  so  in  case 
a  safe  drops  on  me  or  somethin'  they'll  send  for  some- 
body what  knows  me  to  remove  the  remains  to  the 
parlors. ' ' 

Agnes,  busy  as  she  was,  laughed  at  his  plight. 
"Nothing  will  ever  drop  on  you,  Gloomy,"  she  assured 
him.  "Come  in  to-morrow  morning  and  I'll  fix  up  an 
identification  for  you.  Somethin'  big  is  happening 
and  if  the  Boss  don't  make  a  million  dollars  clean  in 
the  next  six  months  I'll  admit  I'm  a  liar.  We  got  a 
straight  tip  by  cable  this  morning  that  this  ain't  any 

148 


NANCY  PRESTON  149 

private  fight  over  in  Europe  but  is  a  regular  free 
fight  with  everybody  welcome.  The  Germans  are 
already  murdering  our  own  factory  people  right  here 
who  never  did  a  thing  to  'em  and  the  French  are  as 
good  as  dead  if  we  don't  go  in  and  help  'em.  Our 
London  office  sends  us  word  to  get  all  the  men  we 
can  to  watch  the  munition  factories  and  docks  here 
so  the  Dutch  can't  blow  up  the  stuff  needed  on  the 
other  side.  It's  the  biggest  order  ever  come  to  an 
office.  It  looks  like  the  Germans  have  got  fifty  spies 
in  the  U.  S.  A.  for  every  British  representative,  official 
or  business." 

"Gee,"  said  Gloomy.  "And  B.  H.  hands  me  a 
little  job  to  pump  a  rich  lawyer  in  the  Mike  Horgan 
case." 

"That's  because  he's  got  brains."  Agnes  pushed 
him  along  gently  to  the  outer  door,  relieving  him  of 
his  precious  badge.  "The  old  war  might  end  the 
minute  we  step  in  and  he  ain  't  the  detective  to  throw 
over  all  his  old  customers  on  a  chance.  He'll  hang 
to  the  old  ones  and  tackle  the  new  ones,  too.  So  long. 
Come  in  to-morrow  and  I'll  fix  you  up  if  I  ain't  in 
Mattawan  playing  tit-tat-toe  with  some  other  mental 
wreck." 

"You  might  just  as  well  keep  these  for  me,  Agnes," 
he  said,  handing  over  his  automatic,  the  little  pocket 
electric  and  the  trombone.  "I  won't  need  'em  on 
this  ladylike  job." 


150  NANCY  PRESTON 

"You  bet  the  office  will  need  them,  Gloomy."  She 
cleaned  him  of  every  implement  of  his  trade  and  piped 
a  cheerful  "Good-by,  old  dear,"  to  him  as  he  headed 
for  the  elevator. 

"She  sure  ain't  any  commercial  nun,  that  Agnes," 
he  chuckled  to  himself  on  his  way  earthward.  "If 
she  wasn't  makin'  twice  as  much  as  me  I'd  be  askin' 
her  out  to  the  theater  some  night. ' ' 

He  strolled  up  Nassau  street  and  found  the  offices 
of  Vernon  Snowden  and  his  associates,  being  informed 
there  that  the  lawyer  had  been  suddenly  called  to 
Chicago  on  business.  Out  again  in  the  narrow  street 
he  walked  leisurely  north  to  Park  Row  and  into  a 
bedlam  of  newsboys  shouting  an  extra  that  brought 
them  a  harvest  of  pennies.  He  joined  the  throngs 
before  the  bulletin  boards  of  the  downtown  newspaper 
offices.  The  date  of  the  Washington  dispatch,  dis- 
played in  large  letters,  was  September  seventeenth, 
1914.  It  sent  forth  the  news  that  the  United  States 
government  had  informally  approached  the  German 
Kaiser  in  the  matter  of  peace  terms,  offering  its 
friendly  services  to  the  belligerents. 

"Sure,  Agnes  has  the  right  dope,"  Gloomy  de- 
cided. "This  old  war  will  blow  up  soon.  There  ain't 
nobody  got  anything  on  B.  H.  Tierney  for  common 
sense.  He  ain't  so  brilliant  that  he  can  work  in  a 
dark  room  without  turning  on  one  light  anyhow,  but 
he's  there  when  it  comes  to  plugging  along  good  and 


NANCY  PRESTON  151 

steady. "  He  elbowed  his  way  from  the  crowd  and  out 
into  Spruce  street,  narrow  and  steep,  leading  down 
to  the  old  "Swamp"  section  of  Manhattan  Island, 
where  the  hide  and  leather  business  is  centered. 

At  William  street  a  score  of  human  voices  shouted 
a  warning  as  he  started  to  cross.  There  was  a  heavy 
tangle  of  wagons  and  trucks  from  the  newspaper  cir- 
culation offices.  It  parted  suddenly  and  packed 
against  and  overflowed  the  curbs  as  a  motor  engine 
with  bell  and  siren  going  dashed  by  on  its  way  to 
answer  a  fire  call.  As  he  jumped  back  something 
struck  him  between  the  shoulders,  the  pole  of  one  of 
the  newspaper  wagons;  he  lost  his  breath  and  his 
footing  at  the  same  time  and  disappeared  for  several 
moments  from  the  sight  of  the  people  crowding  the 
sidewalk.  When  he  was  drawn  from  under  the  strug- 
gling shifting  traffic  there  was  a  little  red  stream  of 
blood  from  his  nostrils  and  another  from  a  corner  of 
his  mouth.  He  was  taken  into  the  saloon  on  the  cor- 
ner and  laid  on  the  floor  while  a  policeman  summoned 
an  ambulance. 

One  of  the  employees  in  the  place  put  a  wet  towel 
to  Gloomy 's  lips,  nose  and  eyes  and  ripped  open  his 
waistcoat.  There  was  no  tremor  in  response.  The 
ambulance  surgeon  felt  for  a  pulse  and  tried  for  a 
heart  beat  with  his  stethoscope. 

''He's  dead,"  he  said. 

"Better  take  him  to  the  station,  then,  for  identified- 


152  NANCY  PRESTON 

tion,"  suggested  the  cop.  "Maybe  he's  got  some  pa- 
pers or  letters  on  him."  He  made  a  quick  search  of 
the  dead  man's  pockets.  "Not  a  thing  on  him,"  he 
announced.  "It's  a  morgue  case.  Take  him  along 
and  I  '11  look  up  some  witnesses. ' ' 

For  one  time  Agnes  was  wrong.  What  was  left  of 
the  patient,  unimaginative  Cole,  to  whose  soul  there 
had  come  only  that  morning  the  light  of  a  good  deed 
done  at  the  sacrifice  of  duty,  was  eventually  taken 
to  the  foot  of  Misery  Lane,  the  east  end  of  Twenty- 
first  street,  where  Bellevue  Hospital,  various  clinics, 
undertakers'  shops  and  New  York's  roomy  morgue 
are  crowded  together  and  where  the  tugs  pull  up  once 
a  day  for  the  deck-load  of  passengers  in  their  cheap 
brown  wooden  overcoats,  bound  for  Potter's  Field. 

Nancy's  one  witness  that  could  have  saved  her  if 
the  police  landed  her  for  the  murder  of  Luther  Littsky 
had  joined  the  thousands  of  people  that  have  disap- 
peared suddenly  and  completely  from  the  sidewalks 
of  New  York. 


CHAPTER  XXXn 

rpIERNEY  had  just  rolled  back  to  the  office  from 
*-  lunch. 

"Anything  doin',  Agnes?"  he  asked,  pausing  at 
her  desk. 

"A  cable  from  London  saying  there's  a  deposit  of 
$150,000  in  our  office  there  for  this  British  job.  Also 
says  draw  all  you  need."  She  perked  her  pretty 
head  on  one  side  as  she  smiled  up  to  him.  "This  is 
more  than  a  million  dollar  job  if  the  scrap  goes  on 
for  a  year  and  the  agencies  are  sending  in  men  by  the 
hundred,  glad  to  get  three  dollars  a  day  as  watch- 
men." 

"Yeh,  Agnes,"  he  smiled  back.  "  'At's  all  right 
but  don't  let  it  mix  up  our  regular  schedule.  Any 
calls?" 

"Police  headquarters." 

"Get  'em." 

The  detective  bureau  wanted  him,  and  one  of  his 
old  pals  of  Mulberry  street  days,  now  a  captain,  was 
on  the  wire  in  a  few  moments  telling  him  the  story  of 
the  murder  of  Littsky. 

' '  We  want  all  the  dope  we  can  get  on  Nancy  Pres- 
ton, the  jane  that  led  you  to  Mike  Horgan,"  his 

153 


154  NANCY  PRESTON 

friend  told  him.  "Littsky  was  murdered  in  her  room 
after  a  stiff  fight,  got  a  crack  over  the  head  with  a 
chair  and  was  then  choked  the  rest  of  the  way.  It's 
a  clear  case.  We  got  a  piece  of  her  hair,  pulled  out  in 
the  scuffle,  some  of  her  torn  clothes  and  finger  prints 
a-plenty.  They'd  had  a  big  feed  before  the  row 
started.  The  dishes  were  all  there.  Littsky  ordered 
the  stuff  sent  to  the  house  and  the  landlady  took  it  in 
to  her.  When  Nancy  finished  him  she  took  his  money 
and  diamonds,  picked  up  the  kid  and  beat  it.  The 
landlady  was  doped  and  can't  remember  much  except 
that  they  were  fighting  the  last  time  she  saw  them 
together." 

"Say,  I  had  a  man  watchin'  the  two  of  them  last 
night,"  Tierney  informed  his  friend.  "What  time 
did  this  happen?" 

"Just  before  daybreak." 

"Then  he  was  sleeping.  He  didn't  know  a  thing 
about  it.  Wait  a  minute,  will  ya — "  Tierney  yelled 
through  his  open  door:  "Agnes,  find  Gloomy  and 
tell  him  his  job 's  gone.  I  want  his  gun  and  his  badge 
right  away." 

"I  got  them  here,"  called  back  Agnes. 

"Good  girl.  Nowlookit!"  He  began  talking  into 
the  phone  again,  humping  himself  eagerly  over  it, 
reveling  in  the  joy  of  a  fresh  trail.  "Of  course  ya 
got  all  the  pawnshops  covered.  Well,  there  was  a  girl 
named  Mazy  she  traveled  with,  an  old  timer.  Oh, 


NANCY  PRESTON  155 

she  blew,  did  she?"  His  camera  brain  delivered  up 
all  that  he  had  ever  picked  up  on  poor  Mazy.  "Try 
Boston  for  her.  She  lived  there  once  ag  a  girl.  Some 
guy  picked  her  up  and  brought  her  to  New  York. 
She'll  go  there  because  she'll  know  how  to  get  around 
the  streets  without  asking  the  cops.  Find  her  and 
watch  her  mail.  And  there's  Mike  Horgan  up  in  Sing 
Sing.  Nancy  will  try  to  reach  him.  He's  her  man 
and  she  won't  be  able  to  keep  away  from  him  long. 
Get  Murphy  and  Vegas  to  take  a  look-see  up  at  her 
old  address  in  the  Bronx.  There  might  be  something 
doing  there.  Try  the  night-hawk  taxis  around  the 
fifties.  They'd  remember  her  on  account  of  the  kid. 
Got  it  all*  You're  welcome.  If  I  get  a  chance  I'll 
see  what  I  can  do  for  you. "  He  hung  up  and  wheeled 
in  his  chair.  "Once  they  get  started  crooked,"  he 
mused,  "they  just  keep  at  it  and  these  nice  ladies 
and  gents  who  go  out  to  help  them  go  straight  just 
make  it  all  the  harder  for  us.  Why,  they're  having 
some  moving  pictures  every  week  up  at  Sing  Sing 
these  days  and  even  the  actors  make  up  holiday  par- 
ties to  put  on  vaudeville  shows  for  the  cons."  He 
wagged  his  heavy  head  dolorously.  "And  here's  this 
Whoozis,  the  new  warden,  preaching  kindness. 
They'll  all  be  wearing  wrist-watches  in  another  year. 
They  don't  even  crop  their  heads  any  more  and  the 
old  stripes  are  done  away  with  because  it  might  hurt 
the  feelings  of  some  old  guy  like  Cock-Eyed  Garry 


156  NANCY  PRESTON 

McGarry  or  some  tender  young  lizard  like  Izzie  the 
Dip.  Oh,  hell!" 

"What's  the  matter,  Chief?"  Agnes  entered  and 
plumped  herself  down  for  a  few  peaceful  happy  mo- 
ments of  manicuring. 

"Oh,  nothing  much.  Same  old  thing.  If  that  fat 
slob  Judge  Maddigan  had  only  tucked  away  Nancy 
Preston  for  a  year  or  so  for  trying  to  beat  us  out  on 
the  Horgan  case  there  wouldn't  be  a  murder  for  the 
police  to  investigate  to-day.  She  killed  Littsky  this 
morning  some  time.  She  with  her  pretty  blue  eyes. 
But  this  time  she'll  go  where  she  belongs  .  .  .  maybe 
she'll  wriggle  through  the  wires." 

"It's  a  headquarters  case,  ain't  it?"  she  reminded. 
"We  should  worry." 

"Sure,  but  when  my  old  crowd  helps  me  I  help 
them,  don't  I?"  He  paused  to  think  over  a  way  to 
give  aid  to  the  hunters  now  in  full  cry  after  the 
quarry.  ' '  Just  tip  off  all  our  men  to  keep  an  eye  open 
for  her,"  he  ordered  her.  "Get  enough  pictures  of 
her  from  headquarters  to  hand  to  'em.  New  York's 
a  small  town.  One  of  'em  might  bump  into  her. 
And  tell  'em  about  her  kid.  They're  always  together. 
He's  a  skinny  little  fellow  with  big  eyes,  deeper  blue 
than  Nancy's.  .  .  .  And,  don't  fire  Cole.  .  .  .  Call 
up  Mr.  Snowden's  office  and  tell  him  to  come  in." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  had  attended  to  this  and  gave 
him  the  information  that  his  man  had  called  at  the 


NANCY  PRESTON  157 

Snowden  offices  and  had  gone  away.  Mr.  Snowden 
was  in  Chicago  on  business.  They  didn't  know  when 
he  would  return.  Tierney  sucked  his  teeth.  "I'll 
bet  I  won't  hear  from  Gloomy  for  a  full  month,"  he 
sighed.  "But  it's  my  fault.  Just  keep  calling  up 
that  office  every  day  on  a  chance  of  picking  him  up, 
Agnes." 

And  Agnes  did  that,  every  day  for  a  month,  while 
Gloomy 's  naked  body  lay  in  its  tight  marble  filing 
case  at  the  foot  of  Misery  Lane,  his  clothes  in  a  neat 
bundle,  ready  for  inspection  for  all  those  who  sought 
to  the  very  end  of  the  last  lap  of  outcast  humanity  for 
father,  mother,  sister,  brother  or  child.  As  the  days 
passed  and  no  one  claimed  it,  it  went  its  way,  in  its 
turn,  up  the  river. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

IT  was  a  low  class  crime  and  worth  only  the  sensa- 
tion of  a  day.  The  woman  in  the  case  disqualified 
it  as  a  good  " running"  story  for  the  newspapers. 
Had  she  slain  in  defense  of  what  the  daily  journals 
would  so  roundly  call  her  "honor,"  had  her  life  been 
only  freshly  broken  by  the  Tenderloin 's  prince  of  dark- 
ness, had  she  been  a  new  one  caught  in  the  net,  had 
her  virtue  been  mired  but  recently,  the  public's  ever 
lively  interest  in  the  "unwritten"  law  would  have 
been  caught  and  held  by  the  tragedy. 

It  would  not  have  been  necessary  for  Nancy  to  have 
run  to  hiding  in  the  basements  of  the  cheapest  tene- 
ment houses,  scrubbing  and  rubbing  and  making  her 
bread  and  shelter  from  one  dark  pit  to  the  other  as 
"help"  to  janitors  and  janitresses.  She  could  have 
given  herself  up  at  the  nearest  police  station,  admitted 
her  guilt  and  the  ablest  of  criminal  lawyers  would 
have  fought  for  the  privilege  of  defending  her  free  of 
any  cost.  The  advertisement  the  case  would  have 
offered  would  have  paid  back  a  thousand  fold  for  the 
time,  money  and  effort  the  lucky  one  securing  the  as- 
signment from  the  court  could  have  given. 

But  Nancy  had  been  a  lodger  in  the  Tifft  house,  the 
158 


NANCY  PRESTON  159 

guest  of  the  man  who  had  been  slain.  Also  she  was 
under  suspended  sentence  for  having  tried  to  help  a 
burglar  to  escape  the  law.  Seven  years  before  she 
had  not  been  a  "good"  woman.  In  the  event  of  her 
arrest  she  would  be  the  prey  of  jail  runners,  those  ex- 
cellent products  of  the  New  York  universities  which 
turn  out  a  multitude  of  lawyers  each  year.  The  door- 
man and  the  desk  sergeant  of  every  police  station 
and  the  guards  of  every  jail  in  the  city  know  them 
and  pick  up  a  little  change  from  their  thinly  lined 
pockets.  Poor  themselves  for  the  most  part,  hungry 
for  money  as  wolves  are  for  meat  when  the  winter 
is  a  hard  one,  they  will  take  a  case  on  a  chance  of  the 
dollar  coming  from  a  relative  or  from  the  sale  even 
of  household  goods  and  clothes.  The  criminal  courts 
know  them,  for  they  haunt  them  on  the  chance  of  the 
court  giving  them  an  assignment  to  defend  a  prisoner 
who  is  penniless  and  friendless.  The  reporters  of 
every  great  newspaper  know  them  and  pity  and  despise 
them.  No  innocent  poor  man  or  woman  stands  an 
even  chance  for  justice  with  such  incompetent  and  im- 
poverished counsel.  There  may  be  material  witnesses 
in  a  distant  city  but  there  is  no  money  to  bring  them 
on  or  even  to  get  their  depositions.  Expert  testimony 
may  be  necessary  and  that  costs  a  great  deal  invari- 
ably. The  district  attorney  sends  the  case  to  the 
grand  jury.  The  average  time  taken  for  that  body 
to  indict  in  the  course  of  a  year's  grinding  of  the 


160  NANCY  PRESTON 

mills  is  seven  minutes.  In  the  year  in  which  the 
police  began  to  rake  New  York  for  Nancy  Preston 
and  her  boy,  13,327  men  and  women  were  arraigned 
for  serious  offenses  in  the  magistrates'  courts  of  the 
city  and  forty-seven  percent  were  discharged.  The 
organized  power  of  society  exerted  through  its  police 
system  had  drawn  in  its  net  along  with  the  guilty, 
or  those  seemingly  guilty  enough  to  be  held  for  the 
grand  jury,  6,239  innocent  people. 

The  prosecuting  attorney  is  a  judicial  officer,  sup- 
posed to  represent  the  accused  as  well  as  the  govern- 
ment. But  his  zeal  is  to  convict  and  he  cannot  know 
the  real  truth  back  of  the  defense,  for  what  defendant 
is  going  to  give  to  the  man  attacking  his  cause  any 
information  whatever?  Political  ambition  has  been 
won  for  many  a  brilliant  district  attorney  through 
sending  a  man  to  prison  or  the  chair.  By  a  convic- 
tion he  has  everything  to  gain  and  he  has  all  the 
power  that  is  necessary  to  win  a  verdict  of  guilty. 
Only  great  wealth,  which  may  employ  finer  brains 
than  he  may  boast,  can  beat  him.  The  poor  are  hope- 
less and  helpless  before  him. 

Nancy  knew  what  it  meant  to  be  hunted,  to  be 
hounded  after  her  seven  years  of  purification,  those 
years  of  struggle  with  a  gleam  of  happiness — an  ample 
return  for  what  she  gave  in  decency's  name  and  in 
the  name  of  the  love  she  had  held  for  the  man  who 
had  tried  to  run  straight. 


NANCY  PRESTON  161 

With  Bubs  in  her  arms,  she  staggered  down  the 
basement  steps  of  a  cheap  flat  house  far  down  Ninth 
avenue,  as  far  away  from  Forty-second  street  as  her 
legs  would  carry  her.  In  a  window  was  a  sign.  It 
read:  "Assistant  wanted.  Apply  within."  A 
tired,  broken  woman,  with  gnarled  hands  and  grimy 
face,  lay  on  a  lounge.  It  was  the  janitress,  rheuma- 
tism, bred  in  the  dampness  and  darkness  of  her  under- 
ground habitation,  torturing  her. 

There  would  be  at  least  food  and  shelter  here  for 
a  while.  She  took  off  her  hat,  rolled  up  her  sleeves 
and  went  to  work. 

' '  Thank  God ! ' '  groaned  the  stricken  woman  in  the 
front  room. 

"Thank  God,"  echoed  Nancy. 

Late  that  night  she  glanced  at  an  evening  paper, 
taken  from  the  rubbish  sent  down  by  a  tenant,  and 
read  with  horror  of  Littsky's  murder  and  of  the 
search  of  the  police  for  Nancy  Preston,  alias  "Straw" 
Nancy.  The  janitress  would  know  nothing  of  this. 
If  she  could  read,  which  was  doubtful,  she  was  so  crip- 
pled that  it  would  be  many  a  day  before  she  could 
hold  a  paper  in  her  hands.  This  was  a  safe  enough 
hiding  place,  perhaps  as  safe  as  the  city  held  for  her. 
There  was  food  and  coffee  in  the  cupboard.  She  fed 
Bubs  and  found  a  mattress  and  covering  for  him 
and  herself.  She  knew  nothing  of  religion.  As  she 
closed  her  eyes,  Michael's  patient  countenance  came 


162  NANCY  PRESTON 

before  her.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  speak  to  her, 
to  warn  her.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  thought  that 
she  saw  the  face  fading  away.  Then  she  was  sure  that 
she  saw  iron  bars  and  sat  up,  trembling.  It  was  not 
a  vision.  The  bars  were  real,  guarding  the  back 
windows  of  the  basement  from  neighborhood  thieves. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

MICHAEL,  with  the  red  disk  showing  against 
the  gray  of  his  sleeve,  was  again  on  duty  in 
the  hospital  of  the  old  Monastery  up  the  Hudson. 
Old-timers,  men  approaching  senescence,  their  with- 
ered faces  long  twisted  into  a  semblance  of  brutishness 
by  the  soul-killing  years  of  cell-life,  eyes  dull,  hair 
fallen  out  save  for  eye-brows  and  lashes  of  silver,  their 
skin  in  parchment  folds,  their  gait  that  of  the  oxen 
under  yoke,  were  glad  to  see  him.  They  gave  him 
each  a  glance,  a  flash  of  lightning  from  the  dark 
clouds  of  their  deadened  brains,  the  night  of  their 
blank  minds,  a  glance  which  is  recognition  and  greet- 
ing. Convicts  call  it  "the  know"  or  "the  office." 
Many  of  them  had  been  pretty  ill  and  had  missed  him 
and  his  almost  womanly  gentleness  in  his  ministra- 
tions. Prison  had  never  robbed  him  of  a  trace  of  his 
humaneness.  The  pleasures  of  the  intellect  had  been 
his  bulwark  against  the  foul  influences  of  this  "cor- 
rectional" institution.  The  stigma  failed  to  attach 
itself  to  his  face,  still  dark  and  lean  and  distinguished, 
the  face  of  a  gentleman.  His  inner  life  was  like  a 
white  light.  The  harshness  of  the  world  had  swept 
him  like  a  cold  rain,  bitter  but  cleansing. 

163 


164  NANCY  PRESTON 

In  a  week  he  was  back  in  the  routine  of  his  trusty's 
job.  He  needed  no  trying  out.  Two  terms  had 
shown  his  caliber.  Father  Healey  laughingly  said 
that  he  would  give  his  personal  recommendation  for 
him  as  warden  of  the  prison  and  trust  him  with  the 
keys  of  every  corridor  and  the  great  iron  outer  gate 
that  led  to  the  road  down  the  hill  and  the  wide  world. 
With  such  a  prisoner  the  work  of  the  keepers  is  eased. 
In  workshop  or  mess  hall,  the  guards  with  their  long 
clubs  and  handy  pistols  are  not  so  jumpy  when  he 
is  near;  his  higher  intelligence  seems  to  take  away 
some  of  the  always  present  menace  that  there  is  for  the 
trainer  with  his  whip  as  he  enters  the  den. 

"If  what  you  tell  me  about  this  man  Hindman  being 
the  real  thief  is  true,"  said  the  priest  toward  the  end 
of  Michael's  second  week,  "he  will  be  caught  and  your 
innocence  established.  The  governor  will  pardon 
you." 

"He '11  steal  again,  of  course,"  Michael  agreed,  "and 
he  may  be  caught  red  handed  at  it  but  that  will  be 
another  case.  The  police  and  James  Tierney,  Incor- 
porated, will  not  remember  that  Hindman  covered 
himself  by  sending  me  to  prison.  Their  job  is  not  to 
get  people  out  of  jail  but  to  put  them  in. ' ' 

"But  didn't  you  have  any  friends  to  help  you  make 
a  fight  ? ' '  asked  the  padre. 

"One  friend,  a  woman.  She  laid  her  whole  clean 
soul  before  the  court  and  the  world  in  an  effort  to 


NANCY  PRESTON  165 

save  me  and  when  her  cross-examination  was  ended 
she  stepped  down  from  the  witness  chair  branded  a 
harlot  and  given  an  alias."  Michael's  eyes  clouded 
and'  he  turned  away  from  the  priest  who  was  himself 
almost  as  much  a  prisoner  as  any  of  the  twelve  hun- 
dred gray-clad  men  of  La  Trappe. 

"Her  love  must  have  been  great." 

"No  greater  or  cleaner  was  ever  offered  man  by 
woman." 

"She  will  come  to  see  you?" 

"I  hope  so.     I  think  so." 

The  priest  went  his  way  to  a  distant  cot  where 
death  hovered  and  Michael  again  saw  the  grated 
patches  of  sunlight  creep  from  the  floor  of  the  hos- 
pital to  the  eastern  wall  as  the  sun  descended  beyond 
the  further  shore  of  the  Hudson  to  its  bed  beneath 
the  darkening  autumn  hills.  His  relief  came  on  duty 
and  he  went  to  mess  and  roll  call  and  thence  to  his 
cell. 

One  word  from  her  that  she  was  well  and  had  taken 
up  the  struggle  again  was  all  that  he  craved.  Why 
hadn't  it  come?  The  prison  regulations  did  not  per- 
mit him  receiving  a  letter  so  soon  after  his  return  but 
she  could  have  sent  him  a  word  of  assurance  through 
the  warden's  office  or  through  Father  Healey  and  it 
would  have  been  delivered  to  him.  Perhaps  she  was 
waiting  to  come  and  pay  him  a  visit.  And  perhaps 
she  would  bring  Bubs  with  her.  His  joy  at  this 


166  NANCY  PRESTON 

thought  was  short  lived.  The  lad  was  growing  and  in 
after  years,  when  all  the  storms  of  life  had  passed, 
he  would  recall  him  in  the  baggy  gray  clothes  within 
the  high-walled  place,  would  remember  the  swinging 
to  and  fro  of  the  ponderous  iron  gates,  their  clang  and 
the  echoing  clamor  of  the  turnkey  as  he  made  them 
secure  behind  him. 

Nancy  might  bring  him  anyhow,  as  a  bright  gift, 
knowing  how  deeply  he  loved  the  lad  and  the  happi- 
ness that  would  be  his  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  and 
the  clasp  of  his  little  hands.  He  must  try  and  get  a 
warning  to  her  not  to  do  this  for  Bubsy's  sake. 

The  clamor  of  conversation  from  cell  to  cell  in  his 
tier  died  down  and  the  mirthless  laughter  of  the  ob- 
scene was  stilled  as  the  lights  went  out.  The  keeper 
flashed  his  lamp  the  length  of  each  bunk  as  he  passed. 
Another  prison  day  was  over. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

MICHAEL  awoke  suddenly,  his  hands  and  face 
covered  with  the  cold  sweat  that  only  the  hor- 
ror of  an  evil  dream  may  bring.  He  swung  his  feet 
to  the  floor  of  his  cell  and  passed  his  lean  hands 
through  his  hair  as  he  endeavored  to  recall  it,  to  bring 
in  contact  the  real  and  the  unreal,  the  conscious  with 
the  subconscious.  Her  voice,  Nancy's,  rang  in  his 
ears.  Something  had  happened  to  her  surely  or  per- 
haps it  was  just  that  she  was  thinking  of  him  so  in- 
tently that  she  had  awakened  him. 

He  had  no  idea  of  the  time  of  night  but  felt  that 
he  had  not  been  long  asleep.  Save  for  the  breathing 
of  the  men  in  their  cells  the  tier  was  still.  If  Nancy 
was  in  trouble  he  was  powerless  to  help  her.  No, 
not  entirely  so.  Father  Healey  might  go  to  her  for 
him.  His  job  was  to  help,  even  as  Christ  had  helped, 
those  who  could  turn  not  elsewhere.  His  uneasiness 
grew  upon  him.  Faintly  came  a  signal  through  the 
pipes.  The  old  prison  gossip  was  at  work.  He  had 
something  to  tell.  The  underground  news  service 
was  in  operation.  The  message,  he  knew,  would  be 
long  for  the  operator  was  using  all  possible  caution 

167 


168  NANCY  PRESTON 

not  to  start  trouble  by  sending  so  loudly  that  the 
keepers  would  be  disturbed. 

Slowly  the  story  was  tapped  off  in  the  Morse  code : 


"Luther  Littsky,  panderer,  killed.  Choked  to 
death.  Police  hunting  woman  named  Nancy 
Preston.  She  ought  to  get  a  medal.  Not  ar- 
rested. Got  a  good  start.  Bonehead  Tierney, 
the  rat,  after  her  also.  M.  H.  knows  her.  Bill 's 
widow.  Has  a  little  boy;  no  money.  Looks 
rough  for  her.  If  message  comes  to  M.  H.  will 
send.  Good-by. ' ' 

For  a  moment  Michael  sat  in  the  darkness  of  his 
cell  like  a  figure  cut  in  ebony.  His  blood  seemed  to 
stop  flowing.  It  was  a  part  of  his  dream,  this  tap- 
tap-tapping  that  had  so  sinisterly  assailed  his  ears. 
It  couldn't  be  true.  He  unclasped  his  hands  with  an 
effort  and  felt  the  blanket  of  his  bunk,  tugged  at  it 
and  then  rubbed  his  knees.  He  was  sitting  up  and 
was  awake.  Could  he  possibly  have  dozed  off  in  this 
position  and  dreamed  this  cruel  and  horrible  thing? 
He  stood  up,  caught  the  bars  of  his  cell  door  behind 
his  hands  and  stared  out  into  the  dimly  lighted  cor- 
ridor. 

"Keeper!"  he  called  softly.  "Keeper!  It's  Hor- 
gan!" 

"What's  the  trouble?"  asked  the  keeper  as  he  an- 
swered the  summons. 


NANCY  PRESTON  169 

"Did  you  hear  anything?" 

"Hear  what?    You're  jumpy.     Bad  dreams." 

"Did  you  hear  the  pipes?" 

"Sure,  that  same  old  gossip.  Did  he  wake  you 
up!" 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"Pah,  nobody  bothers  with  him.  He's  a  nut. 
Somewhere  down  in  the  engine  room,  I  guess." 

It  was  no  dream.  Michael  knew  that  he  had  read 
aright.  But  just  to  hear  the  keeper's  voice  and  to 
have  him  near  was  better  than  to  be  sitting  on  his 
bunk  thinking  of  Nancy  running  from  the  police  and 
Tierney,  dragging  little  Bubs  with  her,  penniless  and 
hungry,  the  fangs  of  the  pack  snapping  at  her  skirts. 

"Was  there  anything  in  the  papers  about  the  death 
of  Luther  Littsky?"  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"Sure.  He  got  what  was  coming  to  him,  too.  A 
crack  over  the  head  and  strong  fingers  at  his  throat. 
A  woman  did  it.  He  must  have  been  at  his  old  game. 
She  put  up  an  awful  fight  and  got  away  with  it." 

"Who  .  .  .  who  .  .  .  was  this  man  Littsky?" 
asked  Michael. 

"He  wasn't  a  man.  He  was  a  beast;  ruined  and 
sold  women.  Made  a  fortune.  The  cops  could  never 
land  him.  He  had  too  much  kale.  He  could  buy 
witnesses  never  mind  how  high  they  came.  And 
lawyers !  That  was  Littsky.  Didn  't  you  know  about 
him?" 


170  NANCY  PKESTON 

"No,  my  God,  no!"  Michael  staggered  back  and 
fell  face  downward  on  his  bunk,  choking  back  the 
sobs  and  driving  his  teeth  in  a  corner  of  his  blanket 
in  the  agony  of  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

"IK  THEN  the  day  came  and  the  clangor  of  the  bell 
»  »  for  them  to  get  up  and  get  out  for  the  job, 
Michael  soused  his  head  in  cold  water.  He  had  not 
slept  save  for  a  few  moments  of  nightmare  more  tor- 
turing than  wide-awakeness.  He  gulped  his  coffee 
and  .ground  his  food  between  his  strong  clean  teeth, 
choking  it  down. 

As  he  entered  the  hospital,  the  night  man  he  was 
to  relieve  whispered  to  him  that  the  convict  Father 
Healey  had  visited  on  the  day  before  wanted  to  see 
him.  "Mebbe  he's  got  some  message  that  ain't  any- 
thing of  a  religious  nature  he  wants  to  give  you," 
said  the  night  orderly.  "I  dunno.  He  just  kept 
askin'  for  you.  That's  all,  old  fellow.  So  long." 

Through  the  grated  western  windows  he  could  see 
the  reflection  of  the  morning  sun.  The  distant  folds 
of  land,  rising  gently  to  the  west  beyond  the  further 
shore  of  the  river,  were  smudged  with  haze  so  that  the 
darker  autumn  colors  were  hidden.  The  river  lay  like 
a  wide  blue  ribbon,  ruffled  just  a  little  by  the  breath 
of  a  breeze  playing  with  it  as  a  kitten  would.  It 
might  have  been  spring  instead  of  autumn,  for  the 

171 


172  NANCY  PRESTON 

colors  were  hidden  and  the  cold  hard  glint  of  winter 
had  not  yet  come  to  the  sunlight. 

The  man  in  the  corner  cot  begged  him  feebly  with 
his  deep-socketed  eyes  to  come  to  him  and  he  obeyed. 

"I  got  a  present  for  you,  Mike,"  he  whispered. 

The  words  mildly  startled  him.  He  had  heard 
them  before,  he  thought,  in  the  same  room  and  with 
the  same  light  and  shadows  in  the  room.  He  won- 
dered if  imagination  was  playing  a  trick  with  him. 

' '  I  got  a  present  for  you,  Mike, ' '  repeated  the  dying 
convict.  "It's  under  my  shirt.  Take  it  out.  You 
might  want  to  make  a  get  away.  It 's  a  hand  electric, 
fresh  charged ;  stole  it  from  the  supplies. ' '  Although 
his  lips  were  as  yellow  as  the  clay  he  was  soon  to  share, 
they  twisted  in  a  cunning  smile.  "Bend  lower  and 
take  it,"  he  added. 

Michael  deftly  slipped  the  gift  under  his  own  blouse. 
Then  he  remembered  the  spring  morning  when  the 
orderly  had  told  him  that  old  Jim  had  been  calling 
for  him  and  he  remembered  how  Jim  had  told  him 
of  the  loosened  brick  in  the  wall  of  the  last  potato  bin 
down  back  of  the  kitchen,  how  he  had  puttied  it  with 
chewing  gum  and  how  it  would  let  him  make  the 
sewer  to  the  outer  world. 

"You  been  good  to  us  sick  fellows,"  the  convict 
was  mumbling.  "I  won't  need  it.  You  might.  I 
got  some  tobacco,  too,  and  old  newspapers  and  a  book 
and  pictures  of  wimmin  in  my  cell.  Take  'em  all, 


NANCY  PRESTON  173 

Mike.  Father  Healey  is  a  good  man  but  he  don't 
need  'em." 

Michael  sat  and  held  the  old  fellow's  hands  as  the 
blood  left  them.  The  stiffening  of  the  yellow  fingers 
told  him  when  his  sentence  to  mortality  was  ended 
and  his  soul  back  whence  it  came.  From  the  world 
of  kindness  in  his  heart  Brother  Michaelis  had  gar- 
nered these  things:  a  hole  in  a  wall  and  a  light  to 
guide  him  through  and  beyond  it,  a  little  tobacco, 
some  old  newspapers  and  "pictures  of  wimmin." 

He  left  the  side  of  the  cot  and  went  to  the  win- 
dow, studying  the  steep  topography  down  to  the 
river's  edge.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  the  sewer 
would  lead  directly  to  the  water  from  the  high  perched 
prison  as  Jim  had  perhaps  taken  it  for  granted  it 
would.  In  all  probability  it  followed  the  road  to  the 
village  and  connected  up  with  the  town  sewer.  In 
such  event  the  electric  lamp  bequeathed  him  would 
mean  everything  in  his  venture  should  he  be  com- 
pelled to  make  it.  Again,  he  thought,  a  long  under- 
ground journey  would  mean  occasional  manholes, 
through  one  of  which  he  might  make  the  surface, 
avoiding  the  struggle  through  the  icy  waters  c£  the 
river.  Until  he  heard  from  Nancy  and  received  the 
information  how  to  get  in  touch  with  her,  he  would 
have  to  be  patient.  To  make  the  break  for  freedom 
now  would  be  folly  for  then  they  would  be  wholly 
lost  to  each  other.  As  it  was  she  knew  where  to  reach 


174  NANCY  PRESTON 

him  and  that  she  would  eventually  get  a  message  to 
him  he  was  certain.  She  would  know  the  bitter 
anxiety  of  his  heart  and  if  it  was  humanly  possible 
she  would  relieve  it.  A  greater  tie  had  come  to  bind 
them  than  their  mutual  love  for  the  sickly  little  lad 
they  had  both  started  out  so  bravely  to  save,  a  tie 
made  stronger  by  suffering  and  adversity,  the  love 
that  comes  to  those  who  fight  and  fight  hard  together 
and,  fighting,  see  no  sign  of  cowardice  in  each  other. 

"Well,  Brother  Michaelis!"  Father  Healey  stood 
close  behind  him. 

"Your  penitent  has  just  died,"  he  informed  the 
priest. 

"You  mean,  Brother  Miehaelis,"  retorted  the 
padre,  "that  he  has  been  pardoned  and  is  gone.  We 
are  all  prisoners  just  waiting  for  that  moment. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXXVH 

"IV/TICHAEL  lost  no  time  in  preparing  for  his  flight 
•*••••  from  the  prison.  He  secured  a  change  to  the 
night  trick  in  the  hospital  on  the  plea  that  it  would 
give  him  more  time  for  his  studies,  Father  Healey 
making  the  request  for  him.  His  next  move  was  to 
gain  access  to  the  kitchen  which  was  readily  achieved 
through  his  request  to  he  allowed  to  make  a  b^oth  for 
one  of  his  patients. 

Down  in  the  darker  depths  of  the  walled  city  he 
made  friends  with  the  night  force  of  workers,  even- 
tually found  the  bin  and  the  masked  door  to  freedom 
and  was  ready  for  the  break  should  a  call  for  help 
reach  him  from  Nancy.  There,  too,  he  came  across 
the  old  gossip  and  learned  that  the  chief  wire  of  com- 
munication between  the  underworld  life  of  New  York 
and  the  convicts  lay  through  the  trusties  who  handled 
the  incoming  supplies.  A  motor  truck  driver  picked 
up  a  neat  bit  of  extra  money  as  messenger.  Bill  Pres- 
ton had  used  him  in  the  old  days.  A  note  from  Nancy 
enclosing  the  fee  and  the  word  she  wanted  transmitted 
would  reach  this  man  at  his  home  address  in  the 
Bronx,  not  so  many  miles  from  the  prison. 

There  was  danger  of  the  gossip  sending  along  a 
176 


176  NANCY  PRESTON 

message  through  the  pipes  at  a  time  when  it  would 
not  reach  him  and  so  Michael  made  himself  known  to 
his  fellow  convict. 

"I  knew  Bill  Preston,"  said  the  pipe-line  telegra- 
pher. ' '  There  was  a  powerful  lot  of  good  in  that  man. 
We  were  kids  together  in  New  York,  in  the  same  class 
in  public  school,  way  down  in  Oliver  street  in  the 
Cherry  Hill  section.  To  the  west  of  us  was  the  old 
Bowery  and  to  the  east  the  docks  and  the  arches  of 
Brooklyn  bridge.  That  was  where  the  biggest  part 
of  the  junk  business  was  done  in  our  time."  He 
showed  his  few  broken  and  worn  yellow  teeth  as  he 
smiled  at  his  reminiscences.  "Every  crook  comes  to 
know  at  some  time  that  there  ain  't  anything  in  trying 
to  beat  out  the  law  but  it  was  so  easy  to  get  money 
from  the  junk  dealers.  A  kid  down  in  our  ward 
would  just  wrench  a  piece  of  pipe  out  of  an  empty 
house  when  he  wanted  a  baseball  or  a  catcher's  mask 
and  the  junkman  would  hand  him  the  money.  He'd 
buy  anything  and  no  questions  asked.  When  you 
start  that  early  you  keep  a-going  until  you  get  tired 
of  rotting  in  prison  and  being  hounded  or  until  a  cop 
gets  you  on  the  run  just  as  Bill  got  his.  There  was  a 
lot  of  good  in  that  Bill  Preston.  I  remember  there 
was  a  family  named  O'Hagan  being  evicted  in  Water 
street  and  Bill  went  through  a  transom  one  night  and 
when  he  come  out  he  had  the  rent  money  for  them. 


NANCY  PRESTON  177 

I  think  he  was  soft  on  Maggie  O'Hagan,  a  pretty 
girl." 

He  would  have  rambled  along  in  his  hoarse  whisper 
for  an  hour  had  Michael  let  him. 

"I'm  expecting  word  from  Bill's  widow,"  he  told 
him.  "Don't  put  it  on  the  pipes  if  it  comes." 

"All  right.  Then,  after  the  junkman  gave  us  the 
first  lessons,"  he  continued  in  the  monotone  of  the 
tireless  talker,  "the  cops  got  us  and  before  we  knew 
it  we  were  up  in  Randall's  Island  where  they  send  the 
juveniles.  Say,  that  was  some  hole!  One  year  in 
that  place  would  make  a  murderer  out  of  an  altar 
boy.  There  ain't  a  summer  that  the  poor  kids  there 
don't  make  a  break  to  get  away  from  it,  trying  to 
swim  for  the  mainland  and  many  a  youngster  has 
gone  out  dead  with  the  tide." 

Michael  spread  his  tray  with  a  bit  of  lunch  for  the 
hospital  guard  and  hurried  off,  ending  the  practical 
lecture  on  the  making  of  criminals  from  the  streets  of 
New  York. 

He  had  heard  the  girl's  side  of  it  from  the  evidence 
of  Nancy  under  cross-examination.  This  was  the  side 
of  the  boy  of  the  great  city 's  highways,  a  city  so  evilly 
crowded,  so  topographically  unsuited  to  its  ever  in- 
creasing population  that  it  has  become  nothing  more 
than  a  jungle,  beneath  which  its  people  have  been 
compelled  to  burrow  like  moles  for  the  slightest  elbow 


178  NANCY  PRESTON 

room  in  moving  from  place  to  place ;  a  city  with  day 
courts  and  night  courts,  courts  for  men  and  courts 
for  women  and  courts  and  prisons  for  children. 

Poor  Bubs !  What  chance  would  he  have  ?  Michael 
sat  in  a  corner  of  the  hospital,  his  heart  bleeding 
for  the  little  fellow.  The  bitterness  of  his  own  experi- 
ences had  not  lessened  his  love  for  humanity.  Rather 
it  had  sharpened  it.  The  successful,  the  rich,  the  fa- 
mous did  not  hold  his  attention  and  interest  as  did 
the  great  overwhelming  mass  of  stragglers,  of  whom 
so  many  fought  and  fell  and  rose  to  fight  again.  The 
Illustrious  Obscure,  he  called  them.  Their  battles  and 
their  tears  went  unnoticed.  God  alone  knew  how 
many  Nancys  gamely  stood  the  punishment  of  a  help- 
less civilization  that  had  not  yet  found  the  golden  key 
to  the  problem  of  justice  and  the  poor.  An  old 
problem. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIH 

A  THIN  sheet  of  ice  was  forming  on  the  rivers, 
the  moonlight  plating  it  with  silver  sheen.    Mi- 
chael turned  from  the  hospital  window  at  midnight 
and,  telling  the  guard  that  all  his  patients  were  sleep- 
ing easily,  went  to  the  kitchen. 

The  gossip  was  waiting  for  him.  As  Michael  busied 
himself  over  the  range  the  news  operator  began  to 
shake  down  the  ashes  and  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"Bubs  is  dead." 

Michael  steadied  himself  although  his  face  was 
deadly  white. 

"She's  all  in,"  the  gossip  continued,  and  then, 
leaning  closer,  gave  him  an  address  down  in  the  old 
Ninth  ward  of  Manhattan,  a  tenement  house  west  of 
Hudson  street  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bleecker. 
' '  You  got  it  ? "  he  asked.  Michael  nodded.  The  flash 
light  was  in  his  blouse  and  with  it  a  chisel  he  had 
managed  to  acquire  from  a  convict  working  in  the 
machine  shop.  "She's  living  in  the  basement.  In 
the  front  of  the  basement." 

"Anything  else?"  Michael  asked. 

"The  boy  is  buried." 

"That  all?" 

170 


180  NANCY  PRESTON 

"Pretty  damp  where  she  lives  and  cold.  Pneu- 
monia. ' ' 

"You  haven't  seen  me  to-night."  The  gossip's 
hands  trembled  slightly  as  he  fixed  the  dampers  of 
the  range.  Horgan  was  going  to  try  for  a  get-away. 
"I  ain't  seen  you,"  he  agreed. 

Michael  thrust  some  pieces  of  bread  within  his 
blouse.  ' '  You  'd  better  look  out  for  the  furnace  fire, ' ' 
he  told  the  convict.  The  moment  he  was  out  of  the 
kitchen,  Michael  was  in  the  potato  bin  and  working 
silently,  swiftly.  When  the  opening  to  the  sewer  was 
large  enough  to  admit  his  entrance  he  drew  against  it 
two  sacks  of  potatoes,  balanced  them  in  place  care- 
fully and  flashed  his  light.  Jim  had  done  an  excellent 
job.  After  the  mortar  had  been  scraped  from  around 
the  first  brick  he  had  dropped  all  the  refuse  from  his 
work  within,  using  just  enough  of  the  powdered  lime 
and  sand  to  color  his  chewing  gum  substitute.  The 
top  of  the  brick  sewer  had  been  opened  as  the  wall 
had  been,  the  opening  covered  with  gunny  sacks  so 
that  the  escape  of  sewer  gas  would  not  be  sufficient  to 
attract  attention  within  the  prison.  He  cleared  the 
opening  and  crawled  within,  sinking  half  to  his  knees 
in  the  effluvia.  Breathing  as  little  as  possible,  his 
head  reeling  from  the  poisonous  stench,  he  went 
ahead,  crouched  far  over,  the  light  in  its  narrow  com- 
pass giving  him  brilliant  illumination.  It  was  not 
very  cold  although  he  knew  that  outside  the  tempera- 


NANCY  PRESTON  181 

ture  was  freezing.  Once  he  plunged  forward  rap- 
idly. His  foot  had  struck  some  slimy  object  that  had 
seemed  to  move.  Could  it  have  been  some  living 
thing,  a  cloacal  creature  ?  The  thought  made  his  hair 
stand  on  end.  There  were  such  things,  for  there  seems 
to  be  no  actual  death  even  in  corruption.  He 
plunged  forward,  throwing  his  light  overhead  from 
time  to  time,  looking  for  a  manhole. 

He  had  traveled  for  about  twenty  minutes  at  as 
great  a  speed  as  he  could  make,  covering  his  mouth 
and  nostrils  with  his  left  arm,  when  he  found  the 
first  overhead  opening.  His  chisel  lifted  it  easily. 
He  listened  for  a  full  minute.  The  whistle  and  rum- 
bling of  a  distant  train  were  the  only  sounds  that 
reached  him.  A  footfall  would  have  meant  danger. 
Gently  he  lifted  the  iron  plate  to  one  side  and  looked 
out  into  the  world.  Overhead  the  stars  were  sown 
thickly  between  occasional  clouds  hinting  of  snow. 
He  found  himself  at  a  bend  of  a  wide  road  along 
which  were  darkened  houses.  He  drew  himself  up 
and  out  of  the  prison's  gut,  dropped  the  manhole 
cover  in  place  and  ran  to  cover  in  a  patch  of  shadows 
at  the  sound  of  an  approaching  motor  truck.  The 
machine  slowed  at  the  curve.  As  yet  he  had  no  idea 
of  direction  but  he  knew  that  it  was  hardly  probable 
that  any  deliveries  would  be  made  at  the  prison  after 
midnight.  The  truck  ought  to  be  headed  away  from 
it.  As  its  driver  straightened  out  the  great  vehicle, 


182  NANCY  PRESTON 

Michael  leaped  from  the  dark  and  swung  to  its  tail 
board.  There  was  space  between  it  and  a  number  of 
crates  and  boxes.  He  crawled  over  and  lay  flat  on 
his  face,  safely  hidden  from  view. 

The  roads  were  deserted  and  the  driver  gave  his 
engine  all  the  gas  its  carburetor  could  handle.  He 
felt  that  when  his  escape  was  discovered  and  the 
sirens  began  their  frightful  howl  of  warning  to 
the  countryside  that  a  convict  was  at  large  he 
would  have  a  start  of  many  miles.  Luck  was  with 
him  or  perhaps  God  had  lifted  His  rod  from  his 
shoulders. 

After  about  an  hour  the  machine  came  to  a  halt. 
They  had  passed  through  the  side  lights  of  several 
villages.  Michael  lay  still.  He  heard  the  driver 
draw  off  the  water  from  his  radiator  and  depart.  A 
door  slammed  and  he  heard  a  lock  slip  into  place. 
From  the  silence,  the  darkness  and  the  smell  of  gaso- 
line, oil  and  grease,  he  knew  that  he  was  locked  in  a 
garage.  After  a  wait  of  ten  minutes  he  crawled  out 
of  his  hiding  place  and,  cautiously  using  his  light, 
found  a  closet  where  hung  overalls  and  a  workman's 
cap,  priceless  gifts  of  fortune.  Cleaning  himself  as 
best  he  could  with  what  rags  and  waste  he  could  find, 
he  slipped  into  the  overalls,  pulled  the  cap  over  his 
head  and  jimmied  a  window,  reaching  the  open. 

He  found  the  garage  close  to  the  river.  At  a  ram- 
shackle dock  was  tied  a  motor  boat  in  which  a  man 


NANCY  PRESTON  183 

labored  hard  with  a  cold  engine.  The  ice  was  not  yet 
heavy  enough  to  interfere  with  navigation.  Michael 
sauntered  to  the  stringpiece  of  the  wharf. 

"If  you're  looking  to  get  across,"  the  boatman 
panted  angrily  as  he  desisted  in  his  efforts  to  get  a 
spark  from  his  motor,  "you  can  get  a  free  ferry  ride 
by  tackling  this  damned  fly-wheel. ' '  He  sat  down  in 
the  stern  sheets  exhausted  and  Michael  climbed  aboard 
and  replaced  him  at  the  task.  If  the  Sing  Sing  sirens 
had  sounded  their  warning  as  yet,  the  clatter  and 
crash  of  the  motor  truck  had  deadened  his  ears  to 
them.  His  feet  were  freezing  and  his  stomach  weak 
from  the  evil  exhalations  of  the  sewage  through  which 
he  had  made  his  way  to  freedom.  He  was  glad  of 
the  chance  to  get  his  blood  going.  He  labored  hard 
and  finally  there  came  a  sputter  of  life  to  the  motor. 
He  tackled  it  again  and  with  a  shout  of  gratitude 
from  the  boatman  they  were  headed  for  the  opposite 
shore  where  the  Palisades  reared  clearly  and  solemnly 
under  the  stars. 

Looking  back  as  they  reached  mid-stream,  Michael 
recognized  the  lights  of  Dobbs  Ferry  and  his  heart 
beat  fast  with  happiness  as  he  remembered  his  old 
nook  among  the  rocks  to  which  they  were  headed,  the 
abandoned  summer  house  where  he  had  slept  with  the 
"scrub  angels"  of  Swedenborg.  There  he  would  find 
momentary  refuge  and  a  place  to  rest  and  there  also, 
he  remembered,  tucked  away  in  sheathing  paper,  was 


184  NANCY  PRESTON 

his  suit  of  clothes,  the  suit  he  had  worn  when  he  made 
his  flight  from  Vegas  and  Murphy  the  day  he  saw 
them  enter  the  jewelry  factory  in  the  Bronx. 

Leaving  the  boatman  to  tie  up  his  little  craft,  with 
a  brief  explanation  that  he  had  been  promised  a  job 
in  the  morning  by  a  contractor  in  Tappan,  a  village 
seven  miles  back  of  the  Palisades  road,  Michael  started 
up  the  winding  path  from  the  river 's  edge.  The  sum- 
mer house  was  still  there  and  his  clothes  under  the 
bench.  He  changed  swiftly  to  them  and  hid  his  con- 
vict's suit.  The  Italian  villa,  upon  which  he  had 
worked  for  Dan  Burns,  showed  its  pale  green  tiles  in 
the  starlight.  There  were  curtains  in  the  windows 
and  a  dim  light  in  an  upper  window.  Its  owner,  the 
Wall  street  man  with  money-mania,  was  occupying  it. 
Thought  of  him  brought  the  realization  that  he  was 
without  a  penny  to  help  him  in  his  further  progress 
to  Nancy's  address.  The  correlation  of  ideas  then 
brought  to  his  mind  the  tempting  picture  of  the  secret 
vault  he  had  built  within  the  villa.  In  that  one  nook 
would  be,  perhaps,  money  enough  to  take  him  and 
Nancy  far  away  from  any  more  misery,  poverty  and 
persecution.  "Wealth,  the  thing  that  gives  bread  to 
empty  stomachs,  clothes  to  shivering  bodies,  that  pays 
the  expenses  for  bringing  distant  witnesses  to  court 
so  that  justice  may  be  dispensed,  that  hires  lawyers 
with  high  intelligence  and  pays  the  cost  of  appeals, 
fees  to  itching  hands  everywhere,  was  lying  idle  there. 


NANCY  PRESTON  185 

Not  that  the  villa  owner  lacked  a  decent  right  to  have 
it.  Michael  thought  that  perhaps  he  lacked  only  the 
knowledge  of  the  power  for  good  he  had  attained  in 
its  gathering. 

Faintly  from  up  the  river  came  a  whine,  rising  and 
then  falling,  like  the  mourning  of  some  animal  for  its 
lost  whelp.  It  was  the  siren  call  of  Sing  Sing  for  its 
own,  but  so  far  away  that  it  would  not  awaken  those 
snugly  abed  about  him.  He  could  readily  picture  the 
prison  telephone  operator  plugging  up  the  numbers 
of  all  the  marshals,  constables  and  police  and  all  the 
towns  and  villages  for  miles  around.  They  were  after 
him.  He  hurried  in  the  direction  of  the  villa.  No 
one  stirred  within.  His  chisel  found  its  niche  under 
a  window.  The  sash  gave.  Michael  slipped  over  the 
sill,  his  dancing  spot  of  light  guiding  him.  His  hand 
went  under  a  picture  and  found  the  electric  button 
which  swung  open  the  steel  door  of  the  vault. 

Danny  Burns  had  not  exaggerated.  The  owner  of 
this  house  loved  money  for  itself.  There  were  bonds, 
household  silver  and  jewels  and  cash  laid  thickly  on 
the  steel  shelves.  He  could  have  taken  away  enough 
money  to  have  made  the  luckiest  of  burglars  envy  the 
haul.  There  were  some  gold  coins  in  stacks.  Per- 
haps the  owner  kept  them  for  their  music.  He  took 
ten  ten-dollar  pieces,  closed  the  door,  slipped  out  into 
the  night,  drew  down  the  window  sash  and  struck 
out  to  the  south  at  a  rapid  gait. 


186  NANCY  PRESTON 

In  the  morning  he  would  have  his  railroad  fare  on 
the  Northern  railroad  to  Jersey  City,  money  enough 
to  change  to  the  garments  of  a  gentleman  and  to  live 
as  one  for  a  few  days  as  he  laid  his  plans  to  save 
Nancy  from  the  pack  at  her  heels. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  new  hunt  for  Mike  Horgan  was  hardly  under 
way  when  a  tall  well-dressed  gentleman  stepped 
from  a  taxicab  in  front  of  the  Nassau  street  skyscraper 
in  which  were  the  offices  of  Mr.  Vernon  Snowden,  one 
of  the  most  distinguished  members  of  the  New  York 
Bar  Association.  Several  newsboys  rushed  by  him  as 
he  entered  the  building,  yelling  the  tidings  that 
"Desprit  Thoid  Toim  Boiglar  Escapes  Sing  Sing." 
The  public  was  already  wearying  of  wholesale  slaugh- 
ter and  the  championship  baseball  series  had  long  been 
ended.  Managing  editors  of  the  afternoon  papers 
were  praying  for  a  good  old-fashioned  murder  mys- 
tery jpr  a  wreck  on  the  Elevated.  They  always  sold 
papers. 

The  fare  from  the  taxi  paused  to  buy  one  of  the 
sheets.  He  smiled  as  he  took  the  elevator  and  scanned 
the  headlines  which  for  the  moment  put  him  ahead  of 
a  world-war  in  point  of  interest  for  the  thousands  of 
stenographers  and  clerks  out  for  their  lunch  hour 
downtown. 

An  office  attendant  held  him  up  in  the  reception 
room  of  the  lawyer.  He  filled  in  a  blank ;  "Mr,  Mi- 


188  NANCY  PRESTON 

chael  Lawrence  Stafford  desires  to  see  Mr.  Vernon 
Snowden.  Business — Stafford  Estate."  It  brought 
immediate  results  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Snowden  him- 
self, a  rather  portly  old  gentleman  of  high  complexion 
and  snowy  white  mustache. 

''My  boy!  My  boy!"  he  exclaimed,  catching  his 
visitor  by  both  arms  and  taking  him  into  his  private 
office.  They  sat  and  studied  each  other  while  Mr. 
Snowden  recovered  from  his  surprise. 

"I  sincerely  hope  that  this  means  the  end,"  began 
the  lawyer,  reaching  over  and  taking  one  of  Michael's 
hands.  "I  hope  that  you  feel  that  you  have  paid  in 
full,  my  dear  Michael.  If  you  only  knew  the  anxiety 
that  you  have  caused  me." 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,  but  it  could  not  be  helped." 

' '  But  now  you  have  come  back  to  the  bright  surface 
of  life  and  all  will  be  well."  Mr.  Snowden  left  his 
chair  and  stood  over  Michael,  smiling  in  genuine  hap- 
piness. "Of  course  you  know  that  your  uncle  died 
two  years  ago. ' ' 

"I  did  not  know.    But  he  was  quite  old,  of  course." 

' '  And  quite  rich.  Nearly  all  his  money  was  in  steel 
holdings  and  the  war,  of  course,  has  tripled  his  estate, 
which  I  am  directing  for  you." 

"For  me?" 

' '  Why  surely,  Michael.  Who  else  was  there  to  leave 
it  to?" 


NANCY  PRESTON  189 

"Of  course,"  repeated  Michael.  "He  was  not 
much  interested  in  philanthropy,  was  he?" 

' '  Oh,  he  left  some  fine  bequests,  one  to  your  college, 
a  goodly  sum." 

Michael's  face  lighted  with  pleasure.  "Then  I  am 
quite  well-to-do?"  he  asked. 

"Quite?  I  should  say  so,"  laughed  Mr.  Snowden. 
""Why,  Michael,  you  can  give  away  more  than  a  hun- 
dred thousand  a  year  and  never  feel  it.  Your  uncle 
was  a  most  astute  investor." 

"I'm  afraid  you  will  have  to  begin  spending  some 
of  it  for  me  right  away, ' '  Michael  said.  ' '  I  have  just 
escaped  from  Sing  Sing  where  I  was  sent  for  ten 
years  for  grand  larceny. ' '  Briefly  he  gave  Mr.  Snow- 
den  the  story  of  his  case.  "The  man  Hindman,  who 
was  the  real  thief,  must  be  caught  and,  if  possible, 
a  confession  secured  from  him.  If  this  is  done,  then 
you  may  ask  for  a  pardon  for  me  and  I  shall  be  able 
to  live  in  the  sight  of  all  men.  We  must  put  detectives 
in  that  jewelry  factory.  It  should  not  be  a  difficult 
task.  Without  money  I  was  helpless.  It  is  only 
from  the  poor  that  the  poor  get  real  help  when  they 
are  in  trouble.  Then  there  is  one  person  I  must  save, 
the  one  who  helped  me  out  of  the  bigness  of  her  heart. 
She  is  broken-hearted,  and  perhaps  hungry  in  a  tene- 
ment basement  not  far  from  here.  I  must  get  all  of 
her  story  first  and  then  send  it  to  you." 


190  NANCY  PRESTON 

Mr.  Snowden's  face  was  grave.  He  was  himself 
running  counter  to  the  law  by  shielding  an  escaped 
convict,  a  man  he  had  seen  come  up  from  boyhood 
and  had  loved  and  respected. 

"Was  she  the  lady  you  asked  me  to  help  in  your 
letter?" 

''Yes." 

"The  letter  reached  the  office  when  I  was  away  in 
the  Adirondacks  on  the  orders  of  my  physician,"  he 
explained.  "When  I  returned  she  was  gone  from  the 
address  given.  My  office  could  get  no  trace  of  her." 

' '  I  know  where  she  is  and  am  going  to  her  to-night. ' ' 

"In  the  meanwhile  you  will  keep  under  cover?" 

"I  must — I  thought  I  would  shut  myself  up  in  my 
old  university  town  and  finish  my  course  in  medicine. 
I  want  no  more  of  the  law.  It  makes  of  the  adminis- 
tration of  justice  a  means  of  money  making  merely." 

"And  the  lady  you  spoke  of?" 

"I  shall  take  her  with  me,  as  soon  as  you  get  me 
enough  money  to  provide  my  living  expenses  and 
hers." 

"And  will  she  give  up  her  life  to  a  man  in  hiding 
from  the  law  ? ' ' 

"She  is  herself  in  hiding." 

"You  mean  she  is  charged  with  some  offense?" 

"Yes.    With  murder." 

"Murder!"    The  eminent  lawyer's  face  blanched. 

"But  you  believe  her  innocent?" 


NANCY  PRESTON  191 

"Yes." 

"It  is  better  not  to  tell  me  anything  further  just 
now,"  advised  Mr.  Snowden.  "I  will  get  abundant 
cash  money  for  you  and  start  you  off.  Then  I  shall 
employ  James  Tierney  to  hunt  down  this  man  Hind- 
man  and  get  you  cleared  first.  The  other  case  can 
then  be  taken  up." 

"Tierney!"  Michael  smiled  grimly.  "Not  Tier- 
ney. He  put  me  in  prison  for  an  annual  retainer 
from  his  client  who  was  robbed.  He  drove  my  friend 
Nancy  Preston  to  the  streets  and  sent  her  child  to 
death.  Not  Tierney." 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  WELL-HEATED  limousine,  carrying  baggage 
for  two,  heavy  rugs  and  a  hamper  of  good  things 
to  eat,  stopped  in  front  of  one  of  a  row  of  red-brick 
tenements  just  off  Hudson  street.  In  a  quiet  but 
exclusive  hotel  frequented  by  people  of  means  and 
manners,  Michael,  supplied  with  abundant  cash,  had 
secured  a  professional  shopper  from  one  of  the  Fifth 
avenue  department  stores.  Through  her  he  was  able 
to  purchase  everything  that  Nancy  might  need  and 
that  he  needed  without  showing  himself  in  the  streets. 
The  car  and  chauffeur  were  supplied  by  Mr.  Snowden. 

A  dim  light  flickered  against  the  dirty  panes  of  the 
tenement  basement.  Michael  tried  the  door  under 
the  stoop  and  found  it  locked.  He  tapped  on  the  win- 
dow and  some  one  stirred  within.  He  could  make 
out  the  form  of  a  woman. 

"Nancy!    Nancy!    It  is  I,  Michael!"  he  called. 

"Michael!"  he  heard  repeated  in  a  cry  of  bewilder- 
ment. 

The  door  opened  and  he  entered  a  dark  hall. 

' '  Michael !  Michael ! ' '  her  voice  repeated.  He 
groped  for  her  and  caught  her  in  his  arms  as  she 
fainted.  For  a  moment  he  hesitated.  There  was  no 

192 


NANCY  PRESTON  193 

need  of  taking  her  back  into  the  cold  hovel  in  which 
she  had  found  refuge.  He  turned  with  her  and  car- 
ried her  to  the  car.  The  chauffeur  had  been  given  his 
directions.  Morning  would  see  them  in  a  little  college 
town  where  was  only  peace  and  quiet.  Snowden  had 
already  arranged  for  their  quarters  at  an  inn  where  a 
motherly  woman  would  care  for  Nancy. 

He  pulled  down  the  shades  and  switched  on  an 
overhead  light  as  the  car  moved  off.  How  pale  and 
thin  she  was!  Her  clothes  were  ragged  but  clean; 
her  shoes  broken.  As  he  laid  her  on  the  deeply  cush- 
ioned seat  and  chafed  her  wrists  he  saw  that  her 
hands  were  worn  and  gnarled,  the  nails  broken,  the 
flesh  of  the  fingers  split.  Tears  of  pity  and  love 
filled  his  eyes.  She  opened  her  own  in  time  to  see 
them  fall  and  strike  upon  his  cheeks,  to  feel  their 
warmth  upon  her  hands. 

"Did  they  see  us?"  she  asked,  sitting  up  and  staring 
about  her.  "Was  he  watching  the  door?" 

"You  are  safe,  Nancy,"  he  told  her. 

"Michael!  Michael!"  She  broke  into  tears.  "I 
thought  I  saw  one  of  them  the  day  I  buried  Bubs. 
But  a  poor  woman  loaned  me  her  veil  and  it  saved 
me.  I  didn't  kill  him.  I  didn't  kill  him.  Some  one 
killed  him  after  1  ran  away  from  the  house  uptown." 

"Don't  worry."  He  sat  beside  her  and,  worn  out, 
she  let  her  head  fall  on  his  shoulder.  ' '  We  are  going 
where  they  can't  find  us  and  then  we  will  make  our 


194  NANCY  PRESTON 

fight  with  the  weapons  they  use,  money  and  detec- 
tives. It  is  already  started.  We  will  find  and  get 
Hindman  who  sent  me  to  prison  and  find  and  get  the 
man  who  killed  Littsky." 

The  first  snow  of  winter  began  to  fly.  They  could 
see  it  dancing  ahead  of  them  and  as  it  settled  from 
occasional  flurries  into  a  steady  whirling  sheet  the 
sounds  of  the  city's  night  traffic  died  down.  The  big 
machine  rolled  along  smoothly  and  noiselessly,  gath- 
ering speed  as  the  city's  outskirts  were  reached.  A 
sense  of  security  came  to  her  and  the  phantom  detec- 
tive that  had  begun  to  haunt  her,  sleeping  and  wak- 
ing, even  when  she  was  beside  the  little  coffin  of  her 
boy,  gradually  left  her.  She  fell  asleep  and  when  she 
awakened  Michael  made  her  drink  a  cup  of  hot  choco- 
late from  a  thermos  bottle  and  share  a  goodly  lunch 
with  him. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

TIERNEY  groaned  at  his  desk,  groaned  from  pain 
of  body  and  soul,  for  not  only  was  his  old-fash- 
ioned "belly-ache"  back  upon  him  but  Mike  Horgan 
was  out  of  prison. 

"You  better  get  a  doctor  to — "  began  Agnes. 

"  I  '11  paste  you  with  the  telephone  book, ' '  her  chief 
snarled.  "Why  in  hell  do  they  have  prisons  when 
the  poor  Johns  running  them  leave  the  doors  and 
windows  open  every  other  night  ? ' ' 

"He  can't  get  far,"  suggested  Agnes  in  an  effort 
to  comfort  him.  "He's  broke,  ain't  he?" 

"But  there's  one  thing  I  can  tell  you,  Agnes,"  he 
said  between  grunts  of  pain,  his  heavy  face  spotted 
with  white.  "He  and  Straw  Nancy  will  come  to- 
gether and  when  we  get  one  of  them  we'll  get  the 
other." 

"You  better  get  that  doctor,"  she  began  again  as 
she  realized  that  the  attack  he  was  suffering  was  worse 
than  any  she  had  witnessed  in  the  past.  He  paid  no 
heed  to  the  suggestion.  There  was  time  in  his  life 
for  nothing  but  man-hunting  and  the  new  war  busi- 
ness had  reached  such  an  enormous  scale  that  money 
from  British,  French  and  American  manufacturers 

195 


196  NANCY  PRESTON 

and  purchasers  of  war  supplies  was  pouring  into  his 
office  in  an  ever  widening  stream.  His  detectives  and 
guards  for  the  munition  plants,  warehouses  and  docks 
already  made  a  pay  roll  of  two  thousand  and  for  the 
direction  of  this  force  he  was  working  on  a  profit  of 
one  dollar  a  day  for  each  man.  He  was  among  the 
first  of  the  great  profiteers  and  although  in  the  be- 
ginning he  was  not  especially  cupidous  the  steady 
piling  up  of  such  wealth  finally  got  him  and  avarice 
crept  upon  him  like  a  slow  disease.  He  fought  off  the 
sharp  pain  in  his  side  as  he  had  done  before  and  when 
a  little  relief  came  he  wiped  the  sweat  of  agony  from 
his  forehead  and  asked  for  a  report  on  the  disappear- 
ance of  his  man  Cole. 

"That  was  what  I  come  in  to  give  you,"  replied 
Agnes,  her  pretty  face  drawn.  "It's  bad  news." 

"Shoot." 

"We  found  his  clothes  in  the  morgue." 

"He's  dead?" 

"Yes." 

"How  did  it  happen?"  Tierney's  eyes  were  low- 
ered. 

"He  was  knocked  down  in  the  street  by  a  wagon 
and  killed.  There  weren't  any  papers  in  his  clothes 
to  identify  him." 

For  a  long  time  he  remained  silent  and  thoughtful. 
Death  had  come  a  little  too  close  to  him  and  he  was 
afraid  of  its  shadow  in  the  strange  helpless  way  of  his 


NANCY  PRESTON  197 

kind.  In  combat,  gun  in  hand,  against  any  of  his 
enemies  of  the  underworld  he  would  have  died  fighting 
gamely  and  without  a  tinge  of  fear  in  his  heart,  but 
this  sudden  rearing  of  the  specter,  leaving  a  man 
without  a  chance  for  a  come-back,  left  him  a  coward. 
He  had  bravado  but  was  not  brave.  He  could  pull  a 
trigger  with  true  aim  but  he  had  no  philosophy  with 
which  to  meet  and  face  nature 's  inevitable,  final  word. 

"He  didn't  leave  any  people,  did  he?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"Then,  we  can't  do  nothing  for  him.  He's  gone. 
What  case  was  he  on  when  he  was  killed  ? ' ' 

"He  went  over  to  see  Mr.  Vernon  Snowden,  the 
lawyer,  about  Mike  Horgan  ..."  began  Agnes.  f 

Tierney's  face  became  purple.  Horgan!  The 
name  would  drive  him  crazy.  If  it  hadn't  been  for 
that  gentleman  burglar  with  his  high  notions,  such 
as  calling  a  common  street  walker  a  saint,  his  man 
would  be  alive  and  on  the  job  with  him  to-day.  He 
would  run  him  down  and  make  him  pay.  "Send 
Texas  in  here,"  he  ordered,  "and  keep  out  until  I 
call  you." 

Texas  Darcy  sat  beside  his  chief's  desk  and  listened 
patiently  to  the  angry  tirade  with  which  Tierney  re- 
lieved his  soul. 

"Now,"  said  the  chief,  his  head  clearing,  "we'll  get 
down  to  business.  You  and  me  are  the  only  ones  in 
this  shop  that  know  this  guy,  Horgan,  by  sight.  We 


198  NANCY  PRESTON 

got  to  get  him.  I've  got  more  money  than  half  these 
bankers  downtown  and  before  the  war  is  over  I  '11  have 
John  D.  Rockefeller  looking  like  a  subway  conductor. 
I'm  going  to  spend  some  of  the  jack  to  land  this  feller 
and  land  him  right  and  when  I  land  him  he 's  going  to 
pay  good  and  plenty.  He  and  his  woman  Straw 
Nancy  are  both  running  free.  We'll  catch  them  to- 
gether. We'll  put  him  back  in  his  cell  and  then  we'll 
let  him  sit  there  while  his  Nancy  goes  through  the 
wires.  Murder  is  the  charge  against  her  and  police 
headquarters  have  enough  evidence  on  her  to  put  her 
in  the  chair  a  couple  of  times." 

Texas  lit  a  cigarette,  undisturbed  by  this  burst  of 
hate. 

"If  I  ain't  mistaken,"  Tierney  continued,  "the 
one  big  clue  that  will  lead  you  to  this  pair  of  birds 
is  going  to  come  out  of  the  office  of  the  high  and 
mighty  Mr.  Vernon  Snowden.  I  sent  poor  Gloomy 
there  to  look  him  over  the  day  he  was  killed.  I  want 
you  to  watch  that  famous  lawyer  and,  if  you  can,  get 
somebody  in  his  office  on  our  pay  roll.  We  got  to  get 
at  his  letters.  We  might  tap  his  telephone  and  it 
won't  be  so  hard  to  get  a  dictograph  in  his  private 
office  and  for  that  matter  in  his  home.  We've  done 
it  in  many  cases.  Texas,  there'll  be  something  fat  in 
it  for  you  if  you  handle  this  case  right.  Do  you  get 
it  all  good  in  your  nut  ? ' ' 

"Sure  I  got  it."    Darcy  took  a  last  whiff  from  the 


NANCY  PRESTON  199 

cigarette.  His  little  eyes  danced  feverishly.  "And 
if  he  puts  up  another  fight  when  I  close  in  on 
him  .  .  ." 

"Go  easy,  Texas,"  warned  Tierney.  "I'm  gonna 
make  him  pay  through  his  woman.  He's  got  to  settle 
with  me  for  all  this  time  and  money  and  the  loss  of 
one  of  the  best  men  I  ever  had  on  a  job." 


CHAPTER  XLH 

REMOTE  from  great  cities,  Milford  Town  with 
its  cluster  of  university  buildings,  its  inn  for 
the  comfort  of  visiting  alumni  and  relatives  of  stu- 
dents, its  hospitals  amply  endowed  for  the  care  of  the 
people  of  the  surrounding  country,  its  little  shops 
along  shaded  streets  and  its  peacefulness,  save  for  an 
occasional  boyish  scrimmage,  made  a  haven  for  Mi- 
chael and  Nancy  which,  after  the  years  of  want  and 
misery,  savored  of  paradise  as  they  adjusted  them- 
selves to  it. 

The  Stafford  bequest  had  come  at  an  opportune 
time,  saving  the  institution  from  threatening  indebted- 
ness. Michael's  return,  after  his  mysterious  journey 
to  the  great  outer  world,  was  hailed  with  delight  by 
his  old  instructors  and  the  members  of  the  faculty, 
for  he  had  been  an  honor  man  and  a  favorite  student. 
He  lost  no  time  in  entering  the  medical  school  for  his 
degree  and  found  that  he  had  studied  so  well  in  prison 
that  he  could  already  take  the  second  year  examina- 
tions with  ease.  As  a  post-graduate  student,  as  well 
as  a  benefactor  of  his  alma  mater,  the  way  lay  pleas- 
antly  before  him  for  admission  to  his  new  profession. 

200 


NANCY  PRESTON  201 

To  inquiries  from  his  old  professors  as  to  why  he  had 
abandoned  his  first  choice,  the  law,  he  merely  replied 
that  many  another  man  had  practised  for  a  short  time 
only  to  withdraw.  He  had  found  nothing  wrong 
with  the  judicature  but  with  the  administration  and 
practice  of  the  law  there  were  faults  which  had  made 
him  turn  from  it  as  a  means  of  occupation. 

Nancy  entered  the  hospital  to  receive  a  nurse's 
training,  taking  the  name  of  Michael's  mother  before 
she  was  married,  Anna  Alston.  With  the  death  of  his 
wealthy  uncle,  Michael  was  left  without  immediate 
kinsfolk.  Their  seclusion  was  complete,  their  life  tak- 
ing on  the  beauty  of  calm  after  storm.  Both  working 
with  the  aim,  to  help  the  afflicted,  whether  rich  or 
poor,  the  days  passed  swiftly  and  the  nights  in  mutual 
study  before  bright  log  fires  at  the  inn,  the  music  of 
sleigh  bells  silvering  the  silence  beyond  their  frosted 
casements. 

The  money  he  had  taken  from  the  hoard  of  the  rich 
man,  the  night  of  his  escape  from  Sing  Sing,  had  been 
returned.  Michael's  conscience  did  not  bother  him 
on  that  score.  The  way  of  the  law  with  the  poverty- 
stricken  had  made  him  steal.  He  told  Nancy  that  it 
was  just  as  well  that  he  had  taken  the  money,  for 
then  he  would  be  better  equipped  to  write  his  final 
book  advocating  the  establishment  of  a  Public  De- 
fender in  the  courts  of  the  land,  an  officer  before  the 
bar  of  justice  who  would  ever  be  ready  to  look  after 


202  NANCY  PRESTON 

the  interests  of  the  penniless  prisoners  without  influ- 
ence, giving  him  a  guarantee  of  the  same  opportuni- 
ties for  justice  that  the  wealthy  and  powerful  could 
command. 

"I  think  I  shall  call  it  'The  People  against  Nancy 
Preston,'  "  he  told  her,  "and  then  we  shall  be  done 
with  the  law." 

"Unless  Tierney  finds  me,"  she  said  quietly.  Much 
of  the  old  fear  had  gone  from  her  as  the  winter  ended 
and  the  months  of  bodily  comfort  and  mental  occupa- 
tion in  the  hospital  brought  her  back  to  the  full  of 
her  old  health  and  beauty.  There  had  been  little  time 
in  which  to  receive  the  old  phantom  guests  of  her  ter- 
rible basement  days  following  the  murder  of  Luther 
Littsky,  for  Michael  had  provided  her  with  a  tutor 
three  evenings  a  week  for  the  cultivation  of  her  mind 
beyond  the  needs  of  the  profession  she  was  taking  up. 

"Perhaps  in  the  great  slaughter  that  is  going  on," 
he  mused,  ' '  the  curious  world  will  find  less  interest  in 
the  violent  death  of  a  single  scoundrel. ' ' 

The  glory  of  the  springtime  came,  but  their  hearts 
heeded  not  its  call  although  a  softer  light  came  to  the 
eyes  of  Nancy  and  at  times  she  would  feel  his  hand 
tremble  when  they  bade  each  other  good  night.  They 
worked  harder  in  class  room  and  hospital  ward  as  the 
end  of  the  term  approached  and  summer  came  with  all 
its  rich  beauty  of  full-foliaged  trees,  soft  brown  roads 
and  colorful  gardens. 


NANCY  PRESTON  203 

Faculty,  instructors  and  students  went  away  on 
their  vacations  and  Milf ord  Town  fell  asleep  for  three 
fragrant  months.  They  took  a  brief  rest  from  study 
during  the  last  days  of  June.  In  the  evenings  they 
would  walk,  their  lips  unmoving,  their  hearts  in  com- 
munion. 

One  moonlight  night  they  passed  through  the  de- 
serted streets  of  the  village,  by  cheerfully  lighted  win- 
dows and  white  paling  fences  which  divided  the  high- 
ways from  little  gardens  now  bright  with  roses,  lark- 
spur, geraniums,  verbena  and  salvia,  to  a  winding 
road  dappled  with  silver  and  velvet  shadows.  They 
turned  into  a  little  path  which  followed  a  stream  and 
finally  paused  to  sit  and  rest  on  a  fallen  tree  where  the 
singing  waters  widened  into  a  pond  lying  under  the 
full  moon  overhead  like  an  unstamped  silver  medal 
in  a  bed  of  wild  flags.  He  took  her  hand  and  held  it 
tightly.  Her  blue  eyes  were  moist  and  her  heart  ached 
her  with  a  sweet  pain.  She  rose  with  him  and  he  took 
her  in  his  arms.  He  held  her  so  tightly  that  his  clasp 
hurt  but  she  made  no  protesting  cry.  When  their  lips 
separated  and  the  clamor  of  their  hearts  died  down 
within  them,  they  stood  in  silence  listening  to  the 
strange  noises  of  the  night.  The  eerie  screech  of  an 
owl,  which  made  Nancy  shiver  and  caused  her  to  put 
her  arms  again  about  her  lover's  shoulders ;  the  dismal 
call  of  a  whip-poor-will;  the  stridulations  of  hidden 


204  NANCY  PRESTON 

insects  and  now  and  again  a  new  note  of  song  from 
the  brook  as  a  pebble  was  dislodged  in  its  bed. 

"Nancy." 

''Yes,  Michael." 

"To-day  I  received  word  from  Mr.  Snowden  that 
his  men  had  landed  Hindman.  It  is  only  a  question 
of  a  little  while  now  when  Mike  Horgan  will  be  par- 
doned and  Tierney  and  his  tribe  brushed  out  of  my 
way  forever." 

"And  then,  Michael?" 

"Mr.  Snowden 's  detectives  will  clear  up  your  case. 
The  man  who  killed  Littsky  will  be  found.  Every 
occupant  of  that  house  on  the  night  of  the  murder  is 
being  investigated  thoroughly.  The  search  has  nar- 
rowed down  to  one  man.  He  will  be  found  if  money 
can  find  him." 

"But  if  they  should  come  and  take  me  away  from 
you  now,"  she  said,  "I  think  I  should  die." 


CHAPTER  XLHI 

"OOMEjob!    Some  job!" 

^  James  Tierney  scratched  his  bullet-shaped 
head  with  a  fat  finger.  Before  him  lay  a  stenographic 
report  of  the  arraignment,  confession  and  sentence  of 
one  Martin  Hindman  for  grand  larceny,  the  same 
crime  for  which  he  had  sent  Mike  Horgan  to  the  peni- 
tentiary for  ten  years.  The  mid-summer  heat  was 
fierce,  and  no  breeze  stirred  amid  the  skyscrapers  of 
downtown  New  York.  The  blinds  of  his  private  office 
were  drawn  and  an  electric  fan  churned  the  air  with 
a  droning  sound.  The  perspiration  coming  down 
from  the  vampish  curls  of  Agnes  were  making  ravines 
in  her  rouge. 

"Put  some  powder  on  your  nose,  Agnes,"  urged 
her  chief.  "It's  a  headlight  and  gets  me  dizzy." 

"Fooey!"  Agnes  took  a  look  at  herself  in  the 
mirror  of  her  vanity  case  and  laid  on  the  white  screen. 
"That  was  what  I  would  call  a  regular  piece  of  work," 
continued  Tierney.  ' '  They  must  have  spent  every  bit 
of  ten  thousand  smacks,  berries  or  iron  men  to  land 
him  that  way.  They  got  him  with  the  goods  and 
what's  more  Hindman 's  Jane  was  loaded  down  with 

205 


206  NANCY  PRESTON 

the  stuff  we  thought  Morgan  had  stolen.  Then  they 
got  a  confession  out  of  him,  just  to  clinch  it." 

"And  the  evening  papers  say  the  Governor  has 
signed  a  pardon  for  Horgan,"  panted  Agnes.  "I 
wish  to  God  it  wasn't  so  hot  and  my  vacation  all 
over. ' ' 

"But  who  is  Horgan  and  where  is  he?"  Tierney 
was  not  worried  about  the  part  he  had  played  in  the 
miscarriage  of  justice.  It  was  his  business  to  protect 
his  clients  and,  anyhow,  Horgan  was  an  old  jailbird 
and  had  no  right  working  with  one  of  his  people. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you  he  was  some  rich  nut  and  this  high 
and  mighty  Mr.  Snowden  was  hunting  for  him?"  he 
asked.  "But  mebbe  he'll  break  loose  soon  again.  It's 
like  all  them  manias.  They  have  a  quiet  spell  and 
then  off  they  go."  Texas  Darcy's  arrival  ended  his 
reflections  and  brought  him  back  to  where  he  be- 
longed, the  realm  of  the  concrete. 

"On  time,  Chief?"  asked  Texas. 

"Uh-huh.    Are  you  bringin'  me  anything?" 

"Sure."  The  rat-faced  sleuth  lit  a  cigarette  and 
pulled  up  a  chair  close  to  Tierney 's  desk.  "I  got  a 
girl  on  my  staff  in  Snowden 's  office.  She's  been  tak- 
ing the  names  and  addresses  from  all  the  outgoing  let- 
ters. Of  course  Horgan  ain't  that  guy's  real  name 
but  what  it  is  I  got  to  find  out  before  I  can  get  to 
him." 


NANCY  PRESTON  207 

"Agnes  here  says  the  Governor  has  pardoned  him," 
Tierney  informed  his  man. 

"Yes;  I  saw  that  in  the  paper." 

"We  ain't  got  nothing  against  him." 

"No,  but  if  we  get  him  we'll  get  Nancy." 

"Mebbe." 

"Another  thing."  Darcy's  fingers  played  a  devil's 
tattoo  on  the  desk.  "This  detective  force  Snowden 
rounded  up  was  one  of  the  highest  priced  bunches  of 
men  any  law  firm  ever  employed.  He  paid  'em  all 
big  money.  There  wasn't  a  piker  in  the  lot.  And 
their  orders  is  not  to  disband.  They  go  right  on  draw- 
ing pay." 

"What  does  that  mean?"  Tierney  mopped  his 
mottled  brow. 

"I  guess  it  means  they're  getting  a  defense  ready 
for  Nancy  in  case  she 's  collared. ' ' 

"Well,  they  can  have  all  the  money  in  the  world, 
except  what  I've  got,  and  they  couldn't  hope  to  win 
out  on  that  case,  Texas.  The  cops  have  got  enough 
witnesses  and  circumstantial  evidence  to  clap  her  in 
the  chair,  if  John  D.  Rockefeller  was  backing  her  to 
the  last  dime." 

"Yes,  but  it  don't  amount  to  nuthin',  it  don't 
amount  to  nuthin',"  chuckled  Darcy.  "They  ain't 
got  Nancy." 

"D'yuh  think  you  can  get  to  this  Horgan?" 


208  NANCY  PRESTON 

"Sure.  All  I  got  to  do  is  to  trail  down  everybody 
Snowden  sends  a  letter  to.  If  he's  in  touch  with 
Horgan  by  mail  I'm  bound  to  uncover  him  and  if 
Straw  Nancy  is  in  touch  with  him  I'm  bound  to  get 
her." 

"Go  to  it." 

Darcy  bounced  out  of  his  chair  and  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

WHEN  the  goldenrod  began  to  crowd  the  Queen 
Anne's  lace  in  the  fields  about  Milford  Town 
and  in  the  woods  the  sumach  splashed  the  fading  green 
with  crimson,  Michael  and  Nancy  were  hard  again  at 
their  work  with  the  younger  students.  Money  had 
righted  the  wrong  in  one  instance.  And  there  was 
abundance  of  it.  It  would  save  Nancy,  too.  Mr. 
Snowden's  detectives  were  digging  into  the  forgotten 
murder  of  Littsky.  The  one  witness  that  could  have 
saved  her,  Tierney's  man,  Cole,  was  dead.  The  only 
hope  was  to  find  the  real  murderer  and  in  order  to 
start  in  search  of  him  it  was  necessary  to  get  the  mo- 
tive of  the  crime. 

From  time  to  time  Michael  received  reports  of  the 
progress  made  by  his  investigators.  Littsky 's  ugly 
record  was  dug  up  and  from  its  foulness  came  the 
story  of  the  ruin  of  the  Noonan  girl.  A  year  and  a 
half  passed,  during  which  time  Michael  finished  his 
course  in  the  medical  school,  and  received  his  degree, 
before  Mamie  Noonan  was  found,  a  human  derelict. 
She  was  taken  from  the  gutter  and  made  over  again 
by  kindness. 

"The  Noonan  girl  tells  us,"  wrote  Mr.  Snowden, 
209 


210  NANCY  PRESTON 

"that  after  Littsky  was  acquitted,  her  brother  swore 
that  he  would  make  him  pay  for  her  ruin.  Our  in- 
vestigators have  found  that  at  the  time  of  the  mur- 
der a  man  fitting  Noonan's  description  was  a  roomer 
in  the  house.  Mrs.  Tifft,  the  landlady,  a  cocaine  ad- 
dict, says  that  he  left  the  place  without  giving  notice 
of  his  intention  to  give  up  his  room,  as  far  as  she 
can  recall,  about  the  time  of  the  murder.  Noonan 
lived  in  the  lower  west  side  of  Manhattan  and  was  a 
truck  driver  and  occasionally  boxed  in  the  neighbor- 
hood clubs  for  a  few  extra  dollars.  He  was  not  a 
bad  sort  and  had  never  had  much  trouble  with  the 
police.  He  was  very  fond  of  his  little  sister  and, 
from  his  mother,  we  learned  that  for  weeks  after  the 
miscarriage  of  justice  in  the  trial  of  Littsky  he  wept 
and  raged  against  the  law.  It  may  interest  you  to 
know  that  a  great  deal  of  attention  is  being  paid  to 
the  effect  on  the  psychology  of  the  common  people  by 
the  frequent  delays  and  evasions  afforded  the  wealthy 
in  the  courts  of  the  land  while  those  without  money 
enough  to  put  up  a  fight  receive  summary  treatment. 
Los  Angeles  has  chosen  a  Public  Defender  for  her 
courts,  with  remarkable  results,  and  the  Carnegie 
Foundation  is  now  employing  an  expert  investigator, 
a  well  known  Boston  lawyer,  to  determine  whether  it 
shall  give  money  assistance  to  the  Legal  Aid  Society. 
Mr.  Taft,  the  ex-President,  recently  said  in  a  speech 
before  the  Virginia  Bar  Association:  'Of  all  the 


NANCY  PRESTON  211 

questions  that  are  before  the  American  people,  I  re- 
gard no  one  as  more  important  than  the  improvement 
of  the  administration  of  justice.  We  must  make  it  so 
that  the  poor  man  will  have  as  nearly  as  possible  an 
equal  opportunity  in  litigating  as  the  rich  man  and 
under  present  conditions,  ashamed  as  we  may  be  of  it, 
this  is  not  the  fact. '  But  to  return  to  Danny  Noonan. 
His  mother  has  not  heard  from  him  since  the  time 
of  the  murder.  We  must  be  patient.  As  you  may 
perhaps  realize,  it  is  now  only  a  question  of  a  short 
time  when  this  country  shall  have  to  declare  war 
against  Germany.  Should  our  army  be  raised  by  con- 
scription the  great  net  will  reach  Noonan,  for  he  is 
of  military  age.  The  government  will  undoubtedly 
give  its  assistance  and  give  us  access  to  the  registra- 
tion lists.  It  may  be  that  Danny  will  return  home 
so  as  to  fight  with  the  boys  of  his  own  acquaintance. 
My  organization  is  functioning  splendidly.  Congrat- 
ulations on  making  your  new  degree. ' ' 

Michael  had  taken  up  the  duties  of  a  house  phy- 
sician in  the  hospital,  where  Nancy  served  as  nurse 
for  his  patients.  Here,  it  seemed  to  them,  they  were 
quite  safe  from  the  never-resting  hunters  of  men. 
Alone  with  her  in  his  office,  he  read  her  this  report  and 
again  for  the  hundredth  time  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 

"The  day  I'm  cleared,"  was  the  old  answer. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

fTlHE  President's  call  to  arms  was  made  in  May  of 
•*•  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and  seventeen.  The 
United  States,  a  good-natured,  drowsy  giant,  with  all 
its  faults  and  with  whatever  virtues  it  still  held  over 
from  the  simpler  early  days  of  its  brief  history,  sprang 
from  its  couch  of  ease. 

The  war  drums  were  heard  in  the  streets  of  New 
York.  With  an  obedience  to  their  chosen  government 
which  astonished  the  world,  the  people  accepted  con- 
scription as  easily  as  they  were  wont  to  accept  the 
order  of  the  cop  on  the  corner  to  move  on.  The  lines 
between  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  disappeared. 
Every  man  of  military  age  was  put  on  the  dollar  a 
day  level.  They  ate  the  same  food,  wore  the  same 
uniform,  truck  driver  and  lawyer,  poet  and  motorman, 
milkman  and  millionaire.  As  the  raw  material  for 
the  training  camps  was  gathered  in  the  different  pre- 
cincts, New  Yorkers  who  were  far  away  from  home 
scurried  back  to  the  old  familiar  streets  and  neigh- 
borhoods to  join  "the  bunch,"  their  chums  of  school 
days,  their  pals,  whether  of  the  club  or  the  street  cor- 
ner, and  among  them  was  Danny  Noonan. 

A  man  of  his  own  age^  intelligent,  game  for  any 
212 


NANCY  PRESTON  213 

adventure,  a  good  mixer,  who  was  lodging  with 
Danny's  mother,  went  to  the  registration  place  with 
Danny  and  together  they  were  taken  into  the  mili- 
tary service  of  their  country.  In  camp,  aboard  ship, 
on  the  fields  of  France,  in  the  air  or  under  the  earth, 
in  the  jaws  of  death  or  hack  in  resting  billets  his  job 
was  to  stick  to  Danny  and  if  possible  find  out  whether 
he  was  the  man  who  had  rid  the  world  of  Luther 
Littsky. 

Later,  when  the  Seventy-seventh  division,  with  its 
specimens  of  forty-two  different  races  and  creeds  from 
New  York's  harlequinade  of  humanity,  went  over  seas 
and  was  moved  up  to  the  abyss  of  hell,  Mr.  Snowden 
wrote  this  report  to  Dr.  Michael  Stafford,  alias  Mike 
Horgan,  house  physician  in  the  hospital  at  Milford 
Town. 

"Tom  Danforth,  an  exceptionally  clever  young  man 
in  our  employ,  informs  me  that  he  and  Noonan  are  fast 
and  firm  buddies,  are  in  fact  in  the  same  squad. 
They  sleep  and  fight  together.  Like  many  another  lad 
of  his  kind,  Noonan  looks  with  profound  veneration 
on  the  chaplain  of  their  outfit.  They  have  had  al- 
ready a  taste  of  fighting  and  Danforth  reports  that 
Noonan  seems  anxious  to  join  the  other  boys  of  his 
faith  in  preparing  for  death.  But  as  yet  he  has  not 
asked  the  chaplain  to  hear  his  confession.  Such  a 
confession  of  course  would  be  of  no  avail  to  us.  The 
courts  protect  the  sanctity  and  secrecy  between  priest 


214  NANCY  PRESTON 

and  penitent.  But  should  the  chaplain  know  that  the 
life  of  an  innocent  person  is  at  stake  it  would  then 
be  his  duty  to  have  his  penitent  openly  confess.  The 
only  danger  is  that  Noonan  may  be  killed  in  action 
before  we  can  get  the  truth  from  him.  If  he  did  kill 
Littsky  and  dies  without  making  that  fact  known  we 
shall  then  have  to  plead  justification  in  case  of  an  ar- 
rest and  trial.  But  I  beg  you  not  to  become  impatient 
or  uneasy.  Tom  Danf  orth  is  a  youngster  of  splendid 
resources,  is  absolutely  reliable  and  if  any  one  can 
bring  success  to  our  efforts  I  think  that  he  can.  If 
you  are  considering  offering  your  services  to  the  army 
I  would  advise  against  it.  Remember  that  in  the 
event  of  an  arrest  you  would  be  the  chief  witness  for 
the  defense.  You  must  remain  where  you  are  as  a 
matter  of  duty  as  well  as  a  matter  of  love.  The  life 
or  at  least  the  liberty  of  an  innocent  woman  is  at  stake. 
Besides,  I  am  sure  that  you  will  be  greatly  needed  at 
home,  for  some  physicians  must  be  kept  on  this  side 
of  the  water." 

This  report  was  received  in  the  summer  of  nine- 
teen hundred  and  eighteen.  The  little  university 
town  was  deserted.  Books  were  gathering  dust, 
laboratories  closed  and  the  boys  of  the  coming  class 
of  nineteen  hundred  and  nineteen  were  going  through 
the  setting-up  exercises  on  the  campus  under  the  di- 
rection of  brisk  little  lieutenants  from  the  officers' 
reserve  corps. 


NANCY  PRESTON  215 

Michael  and  Nancy  cared  for  the  sick  and  the  in- 
jured, quietly  doing  their  humble  bit,  the  shadow  al- 
ways near  them.  A  single  German  bullet  might  de- 
stroy their  chance  of  happiness,  wipe  out  their  hope 
of  justice.  At  any  moment  a  hand  might  drop  upon 
Nancy's  shoulder  and  the  happy  life  of  giving  help 
and  comfort  to  the  sick  changed  to  life  in  a  cell,  sepa- 
ration from  the  man  she  loved,  a  trial  for  murder  and 
perhaps  a  conviction. 

"If  we  could  both  get  across,"  she  suggested  one 
evening  as  they  walked  beside  their  singing  brook, 
"we  might  die  together.  That  would  be  a  happy  end 
to  it  all,  Michael." 

"But  if  we  didn't  die,"  he  replied  to  this,  "we 
would  have  to  go  on  living  under  this  cloud.  If  we 
remained  in  Europe  after  the  war  and  there  were 
children,  think  of  our  fear  then." 

"I  wonder  if  they  are  still  hunting  for  me."  The 
old  fear  came  upon  her.  There  was  the  phantom  of 
a  detective  behind  every  tree  and  bush.  He  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  away  the  tears  that  wet  her 
cheeks. 

A  bugle  sounded  the  call  to  quarters  from  the  dis- 
tant campus.  As  they  stood,  heart  to  heart,  the  limpid 
lingering  notes  hanging  in  the  still  night  air,  New 
York's  Own,  the  Seventy-seventh  Division,  began 
hacking  its  way  through  the  Argonne  Forest,  which 
had  withstood  the  valor  of  the  French  for  so  long. 


216  NANCY  PKESTON 

With  well-weighted  trench  knives,  with  bayonet, 
grenade  and  pistol,  East  Side  and  West  Side  boys 
went  to  the  task,  crap  shooters,  dips,  dope  fiends, 
truck  drivers,  burglars,  saints,  sinners,  college  lads, 
bank  clerks,  Danny  Noonan  and  Tom  Danforth. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

"rTlALK   about   the   Paris   apaches   handing   the 

-••  Heinies  something  at  the  Battle  of  the  Marne ! ' ' 
shouted  Agnes  to  the  morning  gathering  of  Jim  Tier- 
ney's  men.  "You  can  tell  the  world  that  there  are 
doings  in  the  Argonne."  She  waved  her  newspaper 
over  her  head.  "It's  the  last  round  of  the  scrap." 

In  the  general  chuckle  from  the  men,  one  narrow- 
faced  ferret  failed  to  join.  His  little  cigarette-stained 
mustache  did  not  spread  with  a  responding  grin.  His 
eyes  twinkled  nervously. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Darcy?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"I  want  to  get  to  the  boss  in  a  hurry,"  he  replied. 

"I'll  take  a  look-see."  She  hurried  into  the  sanc- 
tum and  in  a  few  moments  returned  to  the  assembly 
room  and  signed  to  Darcy  that  he  could  go  in. 

"Tell  me  something,"  was  Tierney's  greeting. 

"I  got  it  to  tell,"  was  his  quick  answer.  "I  was 
fooled  a  long  time  but  I've  landed  Horgan.  He's 
Dr.  Michael  Stafford,  and  he's  in  charge  of  a  hospital 
at  Milford  Town." 

"Is  Nancy  with  him?" 

217 


218  NANCY  PRESTON 

"I'm  pretty  sure  she  is." 

"You  been  up  there?" 

"Just  long  enough  to  be  sure  that  this  doctor  was 
Horgan.  I  got  the  tip  from  a  letter  sent  him  from 
Snowden's  office.  I  was  afraid  he'd  uncover  me  and 
pass  word  to  Nancy  before  we  had  a  warrant.  That's 
what  brought  me  back." 

Tierney  picked  up  his  telephone  receiver  and  got 
police  headquarters  and  the  detective  bureau. 

"Jim  Tierney  talking.  Something  doing  in  the 
Littsky  case.  You  got  a  warrant  for  Nancy  Preston. 
All  right.  Get  it  out  and  have  a  man  ready  to  hop 
a  train  when  I  telephone  you  next.  That 's  all. ' '  He 
hung  up  and  turned  to  Darcy  again.  "I  think  I'll 
run  up  there  and  look  this  thing  over  myself,"  he 
said.  "I  got  a  nasty  belly-ache  again,  but  it  sure 
pays  me  to  stand  in  with  the  old  gang  in  Centre  street. 
If  I  land  the  case  for  them,  they'll  land  something 
for  me.  They'll  have  a  man  ready  with  the  warrant 
to  jump  a  train  the  minute  I  telephone  'em.  There 
ain't  anything  more  for  you  to  do.  Tell  Agnes  to 
get  out  my  bag." 

Agnes  did  not  like  the  idea  of  his  making  a  trip 
out  of  town  while  his  old  trouble  was  back  on  him. 
"It's  foolish,  Chief,"  she  warned  him.  "Darcy  can 
do  it  for  you.  Suppose  you're  taken  violent  on  the 
train  or  something?  Think  of  all  that  bank  full  of 
money  we  made  out  of  this  old  war  and  you  not  hav- 


NANCY  PRESTON  219 

ing  a  chance  to  spend  any  of  it  yet.  What's  the  use 
of  running  the  risk  of  kicking  off  now  ? ' ' 

"That  will  be  about  enough  from  you,"  he  grunted, 
although  the  smile  under  his  bristly  mustache  showed 
his  appreciation  of  her  concern.  "Come  over  here." 
She  went  to  him  and  he  took  her  hand.  "I  couldn't 
get  along  without  you,  Agnes,"  he  said,  hesitatingly. 
"We've  been  pulling  together  a  long  time  and  there 
ain't  such  a  big  difference  in  our  ages,  is  there?" 
She  laughed  and  pressed  against  his  knee.  Was  the 
big  question  coming,  the  question  she  had  played  so 
long  and  earnestly  for?  Was  she  going  to  step  from 
her  secretary's  desk  into  a  palace  on  Fifth  avenue  and 
begin  to  order  the  trimmings  for  her  own  sedan? 

"Jim,  you're  kidding  me,"  she  replied,  as  his  arm 
slipped  up  to  her  waist. 

"No,  I  ain't." 

"Yes,  you  are." 

"Who'll  I  leave  all  this  war  money  to?"  he  asked. 

"Idunno." 

"Well,  I  ain't  going  to  leave  it  to  the  Society  for 
the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Second-term  Convicts." 

She  laughed  as  he  timidly  drew  her  down  to  his 
knees.  He  was  no  ladies'  man,  but  his  money  was 
beginning  to  make  him  lonesome.  She  was  his  own 
kind  and  he  was  of  her  kind. 

"Say,  Agnes,"  he  stammered,  his  face  fiery  red 
and  his  fat  hands  shaking,  "will  you?" 


220  NANCY  PRESTON 

"Will  I  what,  Jim?" 

"Go  to  the  church  with  me!" 

She  snuggled  her  painted  face  down  on  his  shoul- 
der and  cried  for  sheer  happiness  as  the  huge  fish  was 
landed  safely. 

"That's  settled!"  He  got  to  his  feet,  smacked  her 
heartily  and  picked  up  his  bag.  "I'll  be  back  to- 
morrow or  the  next  day,"  he  informed  her.  "Hop 
out  and  buy  a  million  dollars'  worth  of  clothes  and 
diamonds  and  then  we  '11  run  over  to  the  city  hall  and 
get  the  license  as  soon  as  I  get  back." 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

SOME  of  the  pain  would  leave  him  when  he  thought 
of  Agnes  and  a  home  life,  but  the  jolting  of  the 
cars  at  each  stop  on  his  way  to  Milford  Town  hurt 
Tierney  clear  through  to  the  spine.  It  was  all  right 
when  they  were  running  over  a  smooth  stretch  of 
track  but  he  got  to  dreading  the  sound  of  the  loco- 
motive whistle  when  it  heralded  a  station  ahead. 

He  reached  his  destination  an  hour  before  mid- 
night and  took  a  taxi  to  the  inn.  The  night  was  hot 
and  doors  and  windows  were  open.  He  paid  the  taxi 
man  at  the  entrance  of  the  screened  porch  as  a  bell 
boy  took  his  bag.  As  he  was  about  to  enter  the  door 
of  the  hostelry  the  screen  door  behind  him  swung  open 
and  shut  and  he  heard  the  rustle  of  stiff  skirts.  He 
drew  to  one  side  as  a  woman  in  the  uniform  of  a 
nurse  passed  him.  He  was  in  the  dark.  As  the  light 
within  struck  her  face  he  recognized  her  instantly. 
The  little  white  cap  gave  him  a  full  view  of  her  every 
feature,  showed  her  soft  brown  hair  and  her  large 
sweet  blue  eyes.  He  reached  the  nearest  chair  on  the 
porch  and  remained  outside,  telling  the  bell  boy  who 
returned  to  find  out  what  had  become  of  him  that  he 
was  tired  and  not  well  and  would  rest  there  awhile. 

221 


222  NANCY  PRESTON 

Despite  the  pain  he  was  suffering  he  showed  his  old 
eagerness  and  skill  in  shadowing.  Without  a  chance 
of  being  observed,  his  rubber-heeled  shoes  quieting 
his  tread,  he  watched  his  quarry  as  she  stood  and 
chatted  for  a  moment  with  the  clerk.  He  heard  him 
tell  her  that  Dr.  Stafford  had  retired  and  heard  her 
give  the  time  for  her  morning  call.  Then  she  went  to 
the  elevator  and  was  taken  to  her  rooms. 

Tierney  registered,  asked  for  room  and  bath  and 
inquired  if  there  was  a  telephone  in  the  room  as- 
signed him.  Told  that  there  was,  he  followed  the  bell 
boy  with  his  bag.  The  chase  was  ended  or  would  be 
in  the  morning.  The  elevator  stopped  with  a  jerk 
at  the  top  floor  and  the  detective  fell  against  the 
side  of  the  cage  with  a  groan.  "My  God!"  he  ex- 
claimed, "I'm  a  sick  man.  You  almost  killed  me." 
A  glance  at  his  face  assured  both  the  bell  boy  and  the 
operator  that  the  guest  was  ill.  Tierney  felt  as  if  he 
could  not  get  another  foot  but  by  leaning  on  the  bell 
boy  he  made  the  room. 

' '  You  better  get  a  doctor, ' '  he  said  as  he  fell  on  his 
bed. 

"Dr.  Stafford  lives  in  the  hotel,"  the  boy  informed 
him,  "but  he  has  retired." 

"Don't  get  him.  Not  him.  I  don't  want  to  wake 
him  up, ' '  he  gasped.  ' '  Get  another  doctor  and  leave 
that  light  on.  I'm  a  sick  man.  Get  him  quick." 
He  realized  that,  stricken  as  he  was,  one  glimpse  from 


NANCY  PRESTON  239 

November  and  a  jury  panel  was  ready.  The  court 
room  was  crowded.  Mike  Horgan  had  been  nobody 
and  Nancy  Preston  worse  than  nobody  when  they 
last  faced  a  jury  here.  But  now  Dr.  Michael  Stafford, 
with  his  strong  past,  much  guessed-at  by  the  news- 
papers, heir  to  the  Stafford  estate,  devoted  lover  and 
friend  of  a  woman  with  a  past,  commanded  wide  at- 
tention. Nancy  ran  the  gauntlet  of  photographers  as 
many  another  woman,  innocent  and  guilty,  has  done  in 
the  fascinating  annals  of  New  York's  criminal  courts. 
She  wore  her  nurse's  garb  at  the  suggestion  of  her 
counsel,  Michael  sitting  beside  her  within  the  railing. 

"The  defense  is  ready,  Your  Honor,"  announced 
Mr.  Snowden,  "except  for  one  witness  who  is  on  the 
sea.  His  ship  is  due  here  by  the  end  of  the  week. 
We  may  have  to  ask  a  delay  of  a  day  so  that  his  testi- 
mony may  be  included.  I  am  sure  that  this  will  be 
granted  in  the  interest  of  justice.  In  the  meanwhile 
we  are  ready  to  go  ahead  with  the  trial  up  to  that 
point." 

Twelve  men  were  chosen  from  the  panel  with  little 
difficulty  and  were  sworn  to  try  the  case  truly  and 
according  to  the  evidence.  That  required  a  day,  the 
opening  arguments  the  better  part  of  the  following 
day  and  the  actual  fight  was  on. 

The  corpus  delicti  was  established  and  the  police, 
through  the  district  attorney,  presented  as  exhibits 
drawings  of  the  room  where  the  murder  was  com- 


240  NANGT  PRESTON 

mitted,  made  to  scale,  photographs  taken  immediately 
after  the  crime  was  reported,  a  strand  of  hair  and 
finger  prints  taken  from  articles  in  the  room.  The 
linen  collar  worn  by  the  dead  man  was  also  placed  in 
evidence.  It  showed  one  finger  print  .  .  .  Nancy's. 

Detective  headquarters  had  arranged  its  evidence 
in  a  most  commendable  manner.  There  was  not  a 
hitch  in  its  presentation.  The  photographs  showed 
the  disturbed  condition  of  the  room,  the  broken  chair 
lying  not  many  feet  from  the  prostrate  body  of 
Littsky,  even  Mrs.  Tifft  in  her  drug-sleep  asprawl  on 
the  bed,  the  pieces  of  torn  night-wear  on  the  floor 
and  the  remnants  of  the  garment  itself  were  produced 
as  they  were  found  in  the  adjoining  room.  An  expert 
testified  that  the  strand  of  hair  was  Nancy's.  Ber- 
tillon  experts  demonstrated  with  enlarged  photo- 
graphic reproductions  that  the  finger  prints  were  hers. 
The  torn  nightgown  was  pieced  together.  The  testi- 
mony of  these  witnesses  was  damning  to  the  chances 
of  the  accused. 

Mrs.  Tifft,  carefully  coached  and  sufficiently  doped 
to  keep  her  wits  active,  was  sworn.  She  told  of 
Littsky  paying  for  the  lodging  of  Nancy  and  her 
child,  his  purchase  of  the  supper  on  the  night  of  the 
murder  and  of  his  visit  to  Nancy's  room  while  she 
was  undressed.  She  saw  them  fighting  and  took  the 
boy  away.  After  that  she  was  taken  ill  and  must 
have  swallowed  an  overdose  of  pain-killing  tablets  for 


NANCY  PRESTON  241 

she  could  remember  nothing  else  until  she  came  out 
of  the  coma  and  found  herself  in  Nancy's  room.  She 
had  only  a  vague  remembrance  of  having  gone  there 
and  of  having  seen  Nancy  take  her  boy  from  her. 

"Was  she  fighting  as  if  to  protect  herself  from 
Littsky?"  asked  Mr.  Snowden,  on  cross-examination. 

' '  They  were  fighting  all  over  the  room, ' '  she  replied. 

"Was  she  pleading  with  him?" 

"I  didn't  hear  any  pleading.  They  were  just 
fighting." 

"Did  Littsky  cry  out  to  you  to  take  the  boy  from 
the  room  ? ' ' 

"I  think  he  did  tell  me  to  take  him  out." 

"Had  you  known  him  for  any  length  of  time?" 

"A  number  of  years." 

"Were  you  beholden  to  him  in  any  way?" 

"No." 

' '  Did  he  own  the  building  you  rented  for  a  lodging 
house  ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  ever  know  a  girl  named  Mamie  Noonan?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  she  ever  have  a  fight  with  Littsky  in  your 
house?" 

"Yes;  they  had  a  fight  one  night." 

"What  about?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  were  a  witness  for  Littsky,  were  you  not?" 


242  NANCY  PRESTON 

"Yes." 

"What  was  he  charged  with?" 

"I've  forgotten."  The  dope  was  wearing  out  and 
she  was  becoming  frightened. 

"The  charge  was  that  Littsky  attacked  the  Noonan 
girl,"  offered  the  district  attorney.  "He  was  tried 
and  acquitted." 

"That  will  do."  Mr.  Snowden  ended  his  cross- 
examination. 

The  waiter  from  the  rotisserie  was  sworn  and  testi- 
fied that  Littsky  had  given  the  order  for  the  supper 
and  had  told  him  to  take  it  to  Mrs.  Tifft  's  house.  He 
knew  the  prisoner,  having  seen  her  about  the  neigh- 
borhood and  having  noticed  her  because  of  her  pretty 
hair  and  eyes.  "And  she  always  had  a  little  boy 
with  her,"  he  added.  "They  would  stop  in  front  of 
the  restaurant  windows  sometimes." 

"Did  they  ever  enter  the  restaurant?"  asked  Mr. 
Snowden  when  he  took  the  witness. 

"No.  They  just  stood  outside  and  looked  at  the 
spits  before  the  coals,  watching  the  roasting  fowls 
and  beef." 

"Did  they  seem  hungry?" 

"Objection,"  snapped  the  district  attorney. 

"Sustained,"  decided  the  judge. 

' '  The  boy  cried  one  night, ' '  went  on  the  witness. 

"Objection." 

"Overruled.    He  may  tell  what  he  saw." 


NANCY  PRESTON  243 

"Go  on,"  said  Mr.  Snowden  softly.  "You  say 
he  cried?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Then  I  saw  the  prisoner  put  her  hand 
to  her  throat  as  if  something  hurt  her  there.  I  got 
two  pieces  of  bread  and  laid  a  slice  of  roast  beef  be- 
tween them  and  was  going  to  go  out  and  give  it  to 
them  but  they  were  lost  in  the  Broadway  crowd  before 
I  could  manage  it." 

"That  will  do." 

"Just  a  moment."  The  district  attorney  held  him 
for  a  moment  of  re-direct  examination. 

"Many  people  pause  in  front  of  the  restaurant  win- 
dows, do  they  not?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir." 

"That  will  do." 

"A  moment,  please."  Mr.  Snowden  was  on  his 
feet  again  and  his  voice  was  gentle,  his  florid  fea- 
tures grave.  "Do  you  see  many  of  them  cry  as  they 
look  at  the  cooking  food  in  your  window?"  he  asked. 

"I  only  seen  one  other  one." 

"Tell  us  about  that  case." 

"I  knew  the  girl.  She  used  to  be  very  pretty  and 
hung  around  the  stage  entrances.  She  got  in  trouble 
and  then  she  got  shabby  and  hungry,  I  guess." 

"I  object,  Your  Honor!"  shouted  the  district  at- 
torney. 

' '  On  what  grounds  ? ' '  asked  the  court. 

"The  question  is  irrelevant.    Did  Littsky  starve 


244  NANCY  PRESTON 

this  girl?  Is  she  or  Nancy  Preston  being  tried  for 
this  murder?" 

"What  has  counsel  for  the  defense  to  say?"  asked 
the  court. 

"The  relevancy  of  the  question  may  be  decided  by 
a  single  other  question  and  that  is,  What  is  the  name 
of  the  girl  who  cried?"  replied  Mr.  Snowden. 

"She  was  Mamie  Noonan,"  blurted  the  witness. 

Time  for  adjournment  had  come.  Mr.  Snowden 
was  all  smiles.  "The  few  words  of  that  man's  testi- 
mony lay  the  finest  foundation  for  your  story,"  he 
told  Nancy  as  Michael  helped  her  with  her  cloak  and 
prepared  to  ride  back  to  the  Tombs  with  her. 


CHAPTER  LII 

HE  district  attorney  saw  the  trend  of  the  defense. 
•••  Nancy  was  to  be  made  another  Mamie  Noonan. 
He  would  check  this  by  holding  back  his  star  witness, 
James  Tierney,  to  offset  any  character  witnesses  that 
might  be  sworn  for  the  defendant.  Snowden  was  an 
astute  man,  a  quick  thinker,  suave  in  his  approach, 
missing  no  opportunity.  Tierney  in  rebuttal  would 
trap  him.  Counsel  for  the  defense  could  lay  out  its 
story  of  innocence  despoiled,  of  a  woman  starved  only 
to  be  attacked  for  the  satisfaction  of  a  man's  desire, 
of  her  child  crying  before  a  well-filled  restaurant  win- 
dow and  then  he  would  put  on  a  witness  to  tell  of  her 
street-walker's  career,  her  life  with  Bill.  He  smiled 
with  pleasure  at  the  thought  of  checkmating  this  ex- 
cellent lawyer.  It  was  a  battle  of  wits,  polite  enough, 
polite  as  a  French  duel  with  rapiers. 

Another  day  passed  in  making  complete  the  evi- 
dence for  the  prosecution  and  still  another  during 
which  Nancy  told  her  story  from  beginning  to  end, 
simply,  with  no  stress  upon  any  one  phase  of  its 
source.  But  Mr.  Snowden  brought  out  the  seven 
beautiful  years  of  game  fighting,  clean  fighting,  of  a 
woman  who  had  found  herself  and  out  of  the  world 

245 


246  NANCY  PRESTON 

had  found  one  friend,  Michael.  Her  testimony  of  how 
Cole  had  saved  her  could  not  be  corroborated,  for  Cole 
was  dead.  It  was  the  one  terribly  weak  spot  in  her 
story.  It  seemed  like  a  lie. 

The  cross-examination  was  little  short  of  cruel  but 
she  had  stood  it  once  before  and  she  stood  it  again,  her 
eyes  unclouded  by  tears,  her  brave  heart  beating 
strongly  within  her  as  the  sunlight  again  laved  her 
in  the  witness  chair  and  the  eyes  of  the  curious  spec- 
tators were  riveted  on  her  face. 

When  she  left  the  stand  Mr.  Snowden  informed  the 
court  that  the  hospital  transport  Phoenix  with  his 
witness  from  overseas  had  been  reported  at  Sandy 
Hook  and  that  she  would  dock  during  the  night. 
"Until  I  can  have  a  talk  with  him,"  he  said,  "I  would 
like  to  hold  up  the  presentation  of  the  case  for  the 
defense.  There  are  still  two  hours  before  time  for 
adjournment  and  if  the  district  attorney  would  like 
to  put  on  one  of  his  witnesses  I  shall  have  no  ob- 
jections." 

The  district  attorney  bowed  low  and  with  a  broad 
smile.  It  was  an  excellent  opportunity  to  show  the 
eminent  lawyer  and  the  newspaper  men  what  he  could 
do  for  the  People  in  this  trial.  Nothing  could  be 
more  telling  for  the  prosecution  than  to  have  Tierney 
follow  Nancy.  He  was  sworn  to  tell  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth  and  for  the 
first  time  in  his  long  career  as  a  manhunter  he  had 


NANCY  PRESTON  247 

the  opportunity  to  tell  it  and  tell  it  in  that  way.  He 
would  leave  out  nothing,  never  mind  how  much  hurt 
was  done  the  case  for  the  People.  Agnes,  as  brightly 
dressed  as  a  full  window  of  a  department  store, 
watched  him  from  a  front  seat. 

''As  a  detective  on  the  New  York  police  force  eight 
years  ago  you  met  the  defendant,  I  believe,"  began 
the  district  attorney. 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

"Sixf  avener." 

"At  night?" 

"Yes." 

"What  was  she  doing  at  that  time?" 

' '  It  was  a  cold  night  and  sleeting, ' '  replied  Tierney. 
"I  seen  her  breeze  around  from  Forty-second  street 
and  stop  to  talk  to  a  man,  a  little  bit  of  a  dried  up 
feller,  with  hands  and  feet  like  a  child.  He  looked 
sick,  like  he'd  just  come  out  of  the  hospital." 

' '  She  accosted  him  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  sir.  She  was  wearing  a  pair  of  wool  mittens 
and  he  didn't  have  any  gloves  or  overcoat  on.  I  saw 
her  talk  with  him  and  then  take  off  the  mittens  and 
make  him  put  'em  on.  Then  she  laughed  and  went 
away." 

The  district  attorney's  face  flushed.  Nancy  smiled. 
She  remembered  the  poor  devil  of  the  night,  a  com- 
panion in  misery. 


248  NANCY  PRESTON 

"You  didn't  tell  me  about  that  when  I  talked  with 
you  in  my  office,"  said  the  district  attorney. 

"No." 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"Because  I  thought  you  were  only  interested  in 
what  could  be  used  for  the  prosecution  and  I  wanted 
to  save  you  time." 

"I  move  that  that  answer  be  stricken  from  the 
records. ' ' 

"Why?"  asked  the  court. 

"Because  it  is  incompetent  and  immaterial,"  re- 
plied the  district  attorney. 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  that,  Mr.  Snowden?"  the 
court  asked. 

"It  can  be  neither  incompetent  nor  immaterial, 
Your  Honor,"  he  replied.  "The  district  attorney  is 
an  officer  of  the  court  and  is  supposed  to  have  the 
interest  of  the  defendant  as  much  at  heart  as  the  in- 
terest of  the  People.  But  our  practice  has  become 
such  that  a  trial  in  search  of  justice  is  no  longer  a 
fair  and  impartial  presentation  and  study  of  the  evi- 
dence. It  is  one  side  against  the  other  and  the  de- 
fendant is  generally  ground  between  the  upper  and 
nether  mill  stones.  The  rebuttal  evidence  of  this  wit- 
ness is  aimed  to  show  the  true  character  of  the  de- 
fendant. The  answer  as  given  shows  an  act  upon 
which  we  can  very  well  attribute  humaneness,  a  neces- 
sary concomitant  of  high  character." 


NANCY  PRESTON  249 

"The  answer  remains  in  the  record.  Proceed,  Mr. 
District  Attorney." 

Tierney,  covering  his  face  with  a  big  hand,  had 
managed  to  wink  to  Agnes  during  this  colloquy.  In 
many  a  trial  his  ability  to  get  before  the  jury  mate- 
rial that  the  rules  of  evidence  would  have  disbarred, 
had  they  been  invoked  in  time,  had  helped  secure  a 
conviction.  He  was  now  using  his  old  tricks  from  the 
other  angle. 

' '  The  defendant  has  testified  that  for  a  time  she  was 
a  woman  of  the  streets,"  again  began  the  district  at- 
torney, his  anger  ill-concealed.  "Will  you  tell  what 
you  know  about  that  part  of  her  career  ? ' ' 

"All  I  know  is  that  I  seen  her  on  the  street  a  num- 
ber of  times,  just  like  I  seen  lots  of  other  people. ' ' 

"Sold  out!"  gasped  the  prosecuting  officer  under 
his  breath.  The  witnesses  from  headquarters  grinned. 
They  had  seen  this  happen  many  a  time.  How  much 
did  he  get  from  the  Stafford  millions?  It  must  have 
been  some  wad.  The  district  attorney  decided  that 
his  only  chance  was  to  give  Tierney  plenty  of  rope  so 
that  he  might  hang  himself. 

"Just  go  ahead  and  tell  all  that  you  want  about 
this  defendant's  life  and  character,"  he  said  with  a 
harsh  little  laugh. 

"Well,  I  tell  ya,"  began  Tierney,  his  face  sobering 
and  his  eyes  turned  straight  to  the  jurors.  "I  was 
after  her  a  long  time  and  it  took  a  lot  of  hard  work 


250  NANCY  PRESTON 

for  me  to  find  her.  The  night  I  got  her  uncovered 
I  was  laid  low  with  violent  appendicitis,  just  across 
the  way  from  the  hospital  where  she  and  Dr.  Stafford 
worked.  I  was  carried  over  there  and  all  my  clothes 
taken  off.  I  was  laid  out  on  the  table  and  before  I 
knew  it  they  were  leaning  over  me  and  knew  that  I 
had  come  to  get  the  defendant.  He  had  the  knife  in 
his  hand  and  she  had  the  ether  ready.  They  could 
have  put  me  away  and  nobody  ever  would  have  known 
I  was  murdered.  As  far  as  she  understood,  I  was  the 
only  one  who  knew  her.  It  was  a  chance  she  had  to 
save  herself  from  the  chair.  She  didn't  take  it.  She 
and  him  operated  on  me  and  saved  my  life  and  made 
me  well  again."  It  was  a  long  speech  for  Tierney, 
perhaps  the  longest  he  had  made  in  his  life  and  it  left 
his  throat  dry.  He  gulped  uneasily  and  became 
nervous.  Agnes,  resplendent,  her  devotion  shining  in 
her  eyes,  was  leaning  over  the  railing  toward  him. 
He  stared  at  her  fondly  and  a  great  wave  of  gratitude 
filled  him  as  he  recalled  Nancy's  voice  saying,  "He  is 
saved!"  And  he  thought  it  was  the  voice  of  Mary 
announcing  the  forgiveness  of  his  Maker  when  it  was 
only  Nancy's  voice.  Perhaps,  at  that,  he  had  been 
saved  spiritually  as  well  as  mortally.  The  light  from 
the  window  at  his  left  seemed  to  make  his  eyes  smart. 
The  court  room  was  in  dead  silence.  Two  great  tears 
formed  on  the  reddish  eyelashes  of  the  witness,  bal- 


NANCY  PRESTON  251 

anced  for  a  moment  and  coursed  down  his  saggy 
cheeks. 

"Do  you  wish  to  cross-examine?"  the  court  asked 
Mr.  Snowden. 

"No,  sir." 

"There  is  still  some  time  which  I  would  not  like 
to  see  wasted,"  the  court  suggested.  "If  the  district 
attorney  has  a  witness  ready  ..." 

But  the  district  attorney  had  none  ready.  He  was 
sorely  rattled  by  the  treachery  of  Tierney  and  wanted 
time  in  which  to  straighten  out  his  muddled  cards. 

"I  would  like  to  put  Dr.  Stafford  on  the  stand  and 
ask  him  just  one  question,"  Mr.  Snowden  volun- 
teered. 

"If  the  district  attorney  agrees." 

"If  he  will  let  me  know  the  question  first." 

Mr.  Snowden  crossed  and  whispered  it  to  him. 

"I'll  agree,"  he  said  after  a  moment's  thought 

Dr.  Stafford  was  sworn. 

"Will  you  tell  the  jury  how  it  was  that  you  came 
to  meet  the  defendant?" 

"When  I  graduated  from  college  with  a  degree  in 
law  I  received  an  appointment  as  deputy  assistant  dis- 
trict attorney  in  a  New  England  city.  My  only  near 
kinsman  was  an  uncle  now  dead.  He  was  very 
wealthy  and  was  quite  anxious  for  me  to  make  my 
mark  in  a  profession  he  greatly  admired.  I  soon  had 


252  NANCY  PRESTON 

an  opportunity  to  show  what  was  in  me.  I  was  given 
the  prosecution  of  a  case  of  a  poor  peddler  charged 
with  murder.  I  easily  convicted  him  on  circumstan- 
tial evidence  and  he  was  in  prison  under  sentence  of 
death  when  I  discovered  that  the  simple  story  he  had 
told  me  in  his  own  defense  was  the  absolute  truth. 
Had  he  been  equipped  with  funds  he  could  have  easily 
proved  his  innocence,  for  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time 
and  careful  search  for  the  one  witness  who  could  have 
established  his  case  for  him.  I  was  horrified  and 
made  reparation  as  quickly  as  I  could.  This  got  me 
interested  in  the  legal  aid  societies  which  were  strug- 
gling without  sufficient  funds  to  help  the  penniless  in 
the  courts  of  justice.  With  my  uncle's  permission  I 
abandoned  the  practice  of  law  and  came  to  New  York 
where  I  went  into  the  underworld  to  make  my  studies. 
It  was  thus  I  met  the  defendant  and  her  courage  in 
adversity  delighted  me  and  held  me  as  her  friend  until 
now. ' ' 

The  district  attorney  asked  to  be  allowed  to  post- 
pone his  cross-examination  and  the  trial  was  adjourned 
until  the  next  morning. 


CHAPTER  Lin 

r I THREE  men  in  uniform  appeared  in  court  when 
•*•  the  case  was  resumed  the  next  morning.  Tom. 
Danforth,  his  top  sergeant,  and  the  lieutenant  of  his 
platoon.  Danny  Noonan's  buddy,  a  clean-cut  young- 
ster, had  proved  every  bit  as  efficient  as  Mr.  Snowden 
had  thought  him.  He  took  the  witness  stand,  holding 
a  long  sealed  envelope  in  his  hand. 

"Before  my  buddy,  Danny  Noonan,  went  with  the 
rest  of  the  boys  for  the  first  charge  into  the  Ar- 
gonne, ' '  he  testified, ' '  he  wrote  the  letter  that  is  in  this 
envelope  and  gave  it  to  me.  I  was  to  stay  behind 
that  night  as  a  runner  from  regimental  headquarters 
to  the  line.  He  made  me  promise  not  to  open  it  unless 
he  was  killed.  "While  he  was  writing  it  I  got  my 
sergeant  and  my  lieutenant  to  stand  near  him  and 
see  him  fill  up  the  sheets,  fold  them  and  put  them  in 
the  envelope.  When  he  sealed  it  I  made  them  write 
their  names  across  the  flap,  although  Danny  didn't 
know  I  did  this.  Then  I  gave  the  letter  to  the  lieu- 
tenant to  put  away  for  me.  The  boys  went  across 
and  Danny  was  brought  in  mortally  hurt  the  next 
day.  He  died  in  the  hospital  afterward  and  when  I 
went  back  into  the  line  I  was  captured.  As  soon  as 

253 


254  NANCY  PRESTON 

I  could  get  back  to  my  regiment,  I  found  my  captain 
and  told  him  about  what  work  I  had  been  doing  for 
Mr.  Snowden.  We  were  sending  a  bunch  of  the 
slightly  wounded  back  and  he  detailed  my  lieutenant, 
the  top  sergeant  and  myself  to  go  along  with  them. 
That 'show  I'm  here." 

"May  I  ask  what  Danny  Noonan  had  to  do  with 
this  case  ? ' '  requested  the  district  attorney. 

"Perhaps  the  letter  will  show,"  suggested  Mr. 
Snowden. 

"But  there  is  no  ground  for  you  putting  it  in  evi- 
dence," came  the  technical  protest. 

"I  know  that,  Your  Honor,"  said  Mr.  Snowden. 
"It  is  only  by  a  hair  that  my  client  is  being  saved 
from  the  electric  chair  or  prison.  The  life  or  liberty 
of  an  innocent  woman  must  be  the  price  paid  in  this 
instance  for  strict  adherence  to  the  rules  of  evidence, 
rules  which  multiply  with  every  decision  of  every 
court  in  the  land,  with  the  separate  State  legislatures 
grinding  out  thousands  of  new  laws  yearly  upon  which 
further  rules  are  based.  The  only  way  in  which  I 
can  connect  my  dead  witness  Noonan  with  this  case 
is  to  have  another  witness  testify  whether  he  knows 
of  any  threats  Noonan  may  have  made  against  the 
life  of  Littsky." 

"That  will  be  sufficient.  But  do  you  know  the 
gist  of  what  is  in  this  communication  from  beyond 
the  grave?"  asked  the  court. 


NANCY  PRESTON  255 

"I  do  not,  sir." 

"Well,  proceed  to  get  in  the  record  evidence  that 
will  warrant  the  acceptance  of  this  letter." 

Mr.  Snowden  produced  Danny  Noonan's  mother, 
withdrawing  Danforth  for  the  time.  She  told  of  the 
ruin  of  her  daughter  Mamie  and  of  her  son  swearing 
that  Littsky  would  pay  for  it.  Before  the  district 
attorney  could  stop  her  she  added:  "And  if  my 
brave  boy  killed  him.  I  know  God  will  thank  him 
for  it." 

The  judge,  summoning  the  district  attorney  and 
Mr.  Snowden  to  his  desk,  read  the  letter  while  the 
jurors,  Nancy,  Michael,  Tierney,  Agnes,  and  the  spec- 
tators watched  their  silently  moving  lips.  As  Mr. 
Snowden  turned  to  resume  his  seat  he  spread  out  his 
hands  to  his  client,  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles. 

"The  letter  is  admitted  in  evidence,"  decided  the 
judge.  "The  clerk  will  please  read  it." 

The  clerk,  wiping  his  glasses  and  clearing  his 
throat,  read: 

"SEVENTY-SEVENTH  DIVISION, 
A.  E.  F., 

THE  AEGONNE. 
"To  the  District  Attorney, 
"New  York  City. 

' '  If  anybody  gets  in  trouble  for  the  murder  of 
Luther  Littsky  this  is  to  let  you  know  that  I 
killed  him,  me  Danny  Noonan.  I  hit  him  on  the 
head  with  a  black-jack  but  he  didn't  die  from 
that,  so  I  choked  him  until  he  was  dead  and  I 


256  NANCY  PRESTON 

ain't  sorry  although  if  you  get  this  letter  you'll 
know  the  Heinies  got  me. 

' '  I  was  laying  for  him  a  long  time  and  trailed 
him  to  the  Tifft  house  where  I  rented  a  room. 
The  morning  I  killed  him  he  was  trying  the  same 
thing  with  some  other  woman  he  did  for  my  little 
sister.  Then  a  man  interfered  and  took  the 
woman  out.  He  locked  Littsky  in  and  threw  the 
key  in  a  corner  of  the  hall.  Then  it  was  my 
turn  and  I  done  the  job  I  wanted  to  do.  He  had 
so  much  money  and  diamonds  I  took  them  but 
after  awhile  it  all  looked  so  dirty  I  couldn't 
spend  it.  I  tucked  it  under  the  old  water  boiler 
and  other  rubbish  that  lay  in  a  corner  of  the 
basement  where  my  mother  lives.  It  ought  to  be 
there  now.  I  never  did  steal  anything  although 
I've  been  arrested  for  fighting.  I  am  glad  I 
didn't  use  that  money.  A  lot  of  lawyers  could 
take  his  kale  and  save  him  by  sending  Mamie  to 
the  gutter  but  none  for  me. 

"Yours  trulie, 

"DANNY  NOONAN,  A.  E.  F." 

"I  think  the  final  verification  of  the  genuineness 
of  this  document  will  be  simple  enough,"  the  judge 
said  with  a  smile  toward  Nancy  and  Michael.  ' '  While 
the  witnesses  to  the  sealing  of  the  envelopes  are  testi- 
fying I  shall  send  to  the  Noonan  house  and  have  the 
basement  searched  for  the  money  and  diamonds.  I 
think  that  counsel  for  the  defense  should  be  repre- 
sented there." 

"Mr.  Danforth  will  go  for  us,"  said  Mr.  Snowden. 

The  short  distance  to  the  lower  West  Side  was 


NANCY  PRESTON  257 

quickly  covered  and  Danforth  and  a  detective  from 
the  district  attorney's  office  were  soon  back  in  court 
with  Littsky's  money  and  diamonds. 

"Argument  is  hardly  necessary,  gentlemen,"  sug- 
gested the  court.  "If  you  are  agreeable  I  shall  ask 
the  jury  to  retire  and  bring  in  an  immediate  verdict. ' ' 

The  jurors  whispered  to  each  other  and  the  fore- 
man asked  for  pen  and  ink  and  paper. 

"We,  the  jury  in  the  case  of  the  People  against 
Nancy  Preston/'  read  the  foreman,  "charged  with 
the  murder  of  Luther  Littsky,  find  the  said  Nancy 
Preston  not  guilty  as  charged  in  the  indictment." 

Nancy,  who  had  been  bidden  to  rise  and  look  upon 
the  jury,  sank  into  her  chair  and  leaned  her  head 
against  Michael's  shoulder. 

"There's  no  need  of  crying  now,  dear  heart,"  whis- 
pered Michael  as  he  drew  her  close  to  him.  "The  last 
of  the  clouds  have  been  swept  aw.ay." 


THE  END 


V  s 


A     000  046  294     5 


